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Photographic 

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A 


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Tl 

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of 

fil 


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bi 
tl" 
si 

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si 

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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


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Madeline 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 


JAMES  McCARROLL 


IVrril   A    J'OA'TA'A/J'   OF    THE    AUTIION 


AND    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 


CHARLES    LOTIN    HILDRETH 


CHICAGO,   NEW  YORK,  &  SAN  FRANCISCO 

BELFORD,    CLARKE    &    COMPANY 
Publishers 
lx)NDON ;  J.  H.  Drane,  Paternoster  Row, 


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coi'VkicnT,  1889, 
By  Belior,,,  Ci.arkk  &  Co 


--i- ,..,,  j|ffn-,-"ii')- 


i,\ 


INTRODUCTION. 


'■ 


If  to  absorb  through  the  spiritual  senses  all  that  is 
good  and  precious  in  our  common  life  and  the  visible 
world  about  us  and  give  it  back  in  clear  and  tender 
music,  is  to  be  a  poet,  then  James  McCarroll,  whose 
collected  verse  is  here  for  the  tirst  time  presented  to  the 
public,  is  one  of  the  truest  poets  that  ever  touched  the 
lyre  of  gold.  His  long  and  useful  career  has  not  been 
passed  in  the  quiet  gardens  of  the  Academy,  or  in  the 
seclusion  of  tiie  scholar's  cloister,  but  in  the  very  market- 
place of  life,  among  the  busiest  toilers  of  the  world.  From 
a  very  early  age  he  has  been  connected  with  the  press, 
and  probably  has  the  honorable  distinction  of  having 
edited  or  been  connected  with  more  newspapers,  jour- 
nals, and  magazines  than  any  other  man  in  America. 
Twenty  years  ago,  the  Buffalo  Courier  spoke  of 
him  as  "the  veteran  etlitor. "  He  was  editor  and 
proprietor  of  the  Peterborough  Chronicle  in  1841,  and 
many  other  papers  still  flourishing  in  various  parts  of  the 
country  owe  their  success,  "and,  in  not  a  few  instances, 
their  very  existence,  to  his  efforts.  He  was  for  many 
years  surveyor  of  the  port  of  Toronto,  and  has  occupied 
other  important  public  positions  under  the  Canad.an 
Government.  While  filling  these  positions,  and  in  tue 
course  of  his  many  public  lectures  and  concert  pcrforrr;- 
ances — for  he  is  a  celebrated  flautist  and  musician  as 


VI 


INTKODUCTJON. 


well  as  a  composer  of  rare  talent — he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  host  of  famous  people,  both  in  political  life  and 
in  artistic  circles  ;  amon^  others,  Jenny  Lind,  Lucca, 
Sir  Jules  Benedict,  Vieuxtemps,  Wieniawski,  Ole  IJulI, 
Catherine  Hayes,  Maurice  Strakosch,  Arabella  (ioddard, 
Madam  Anna  Bishop,  llerr  (iriebel,  (.'arl  Formes,  etc. 
Not  a  few  of  these  actjuaintances  ripened  into  lasting 
friendships,  and  many  a  one  whose  name  the  world 
delights  to  honor  will  recognize  among  the  pieces  com- 
prised in  this  volume,  songs  sung  or  verses  recited  at 
social  gatherings  where  the  genial  and  witty  poet  was  a 
central  figure. 

As  a  young  girl  sings  at  her  daily  task  merely  because 
the  music  within  her  heart  overflows  at  her  lips  unaware, 
James  McCarroll  has  written  his  poems  in  the  midst  of 
unceasing  and,  too  often,  uncongenial  and  vexatious 
occupation.  Amid  the  thunder  of  the  presses  and  the 
myriad-voiced  confusion  of  public  office  life  he  has 
found  a  quiet  place  within  himself,  full  of  flowers  and 
sunlight,  the  notes  of  birds  and  the  murmur  of  streams, 
into  which  no  jar  or  clamor  of  the  world  could  enter, 
and  where  these  tissues  of  song  were  woven  into  nn- 
perishable  beauty.  That  he  has  not  before  brought  these 
scattered  sprays  into  one  bouquet  has  not  been  from 
lack  of  the  appreciation  of  others,  but  from  the  indiffer- 
ence with  which  so  many  makers  of  song  regard  their 
works  when  once  completed  and  sewt  forth  into  the  world. 

James     McCarroU's     verse     is     essentially     optimistic. 
That  dark  philosophy  which  sees  in   Beauty  only  the 


i^teiibMlitauU- 


IXTRODVCriOX. 


vH 


masked  skull,  and  places  in  the  haiuls  of  Time  only  the 
houi-glass  and  the  scythe,  has  no  )>lace  in  his  art.  lie 
has  that  happy  faculty,  which  is  ilenied  to  most  of  us 
whose  eyes  have  yrown  purblind  with  tears  shed  over 
wasted  hopes,  vanished  friendships,  and  the  many 
wronj^s  of  time,  of  seeini^  the  world  as  a  rose-j^arden, 
darkened,  it  may  he,  at  intervals  by  brief  April  showers 
but  for  the  most  i)art  baskin<jf  in  the  warm  j^old  of  un- 
clouded sunshine.  'l\)hnn  pain,  sorrow,  and  misfortune 
are  the  accidents,  not  the  essentials  of  existence,  lie 
feels  that 

"  An  honest  heart,  and  sturdy  hand, 

These  are  the  finpienients  we  want — " 

And  with  these  most  of  the  ills  of  life  may  be  over- 
come, and  those  that  are  irremediable  must  be  borne  as 
well  as  may  be.  Sin  is  a  misfortune  to  be  pitie<l  ;  the 
cloak  of  charity  is  wide  enough  to  cover  all  human 
failings. 

"  Vice  is  but  Virtue's  poor  pnuli^al  son." 

Only  for  the  Pharisee  praying  loudly  on  the  public 
street  has  he  any  contempt;  the  poor  i)ublican,  lunnbly 
conscious  of  his  own  weakness,  is  his  brother,  whom  he 
gladly  acknowletlgcs. 

What  is  rare,  in  these  days  at  least,  in  an  imaginative 
poet,  he  possesses  a  vein  of  keen  and  excpiisite  humor — 
he  were  no  true  cou.itryman  of  Tom  Moore's  else.  Jiut 
his  humor  is  of  the  kind  that  laughs,  not  siieers.  There 
is  hardly  a  line  of  satire  in  his  whole  work.  And  what 
is  true  of  all    real    humor,  within    him    the    source   of 


viii 


INTKODUCTIOX. 


lauj^htcr  lies  close  to  the  fount  f)f  tears.  The  l)C)^|j;ar's 
visaj^c  may  be  a  ludicrous  one,  but  his  coat  is  old  and 
his  stomach  is  empty  ;  and  if  you  lau^h  at  lum  your 
hand  goes  to  your  pocket  to  share  your  scanty  purse 
with  a  brother  a  little  poorer  than  ycjurself. 

Hut  it  is  in  such  poenis  as  "The  First  Hath,  "of  which 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  expressed  his  admiration  in  a 
letter,  (juoted  in  the  appendix  to  this  voliune,  that 
James  McCarroll  is  at  his  best : 

"  Onci-  more  (Jod  leans  a^^aiiist  llu'  purple  l)ars 
That  close  the  rosy  jxirtals  ot  the  <lay; 
Till,  slowly  through  a  uiist  ot  fading  stars, 
Ik'fore  His  shining;  sh<mlder  they  give  way, 
And  outward  rolls  I  lis  treasurer,  the  sun — " 
****** 

"  Wondrous  changing  webs  of  jewelled  gauze 

From  out  His  great,  round  coffers  of  the  sea, 

Far  irji  the  heavens,  with  lustrous  hand  He  draws," 

In  this  humble  tribute  to  the  gfenius  ol  my  friend  and 
colleaijue,  I  feel  that  I  have  fallen  far  short  <sf  that  praise 
which  is  his  right ;  but  I  believe  that  his  readers,  those 
who  have  long  known  and  loved  his  work  and  those 
who  meet  with  it  now  for  the  first  time,  will  nnt  fail  to 
understand  and  appreciate,  as  it  deserves,  the  purity, 
humanity  and  beauty  of  this  golden  harvest  of  a  well- 
spent  life. 

Charles  Lotin  Hildreth. 

Ajml,   1889. 


A 


■■<^i  .111  rf."A>i..^i?i 


i.iiS.<ti  A^ 


CONTENTS. 


I>A(iK. 

Madeline i 

Kd^jar  A.  I'oc 9 

'i'lif  First  IJiith 10 

(ftTiuaii  Studfiit's  Song 12 

Why  Diisi  Tliuu  Tarry  ? 14 

Lines — On  viewing  an  exquisite- 
ly painted  portrait  of  the  l)eau- 

tifiil  Mrs.  Rol)ert    Belford...  16 

Christmas  Chimes 17 

The  (Ireat  Iron  Cyclops 21 

A  Royal  Kace 23 

The  I'earl 25 

The  Maniac's  Invocation' 26 

"Only  a  Woman's  Hair." 28 

To  the  Right  Hand 30 

To  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
— On  hearing  of  the  celebra- 
tion of  his  seventy -sixth  birth- 
day   41 

A  June  Idyl 42 

Yes,  yes,  you  are  "A  King"  - 

Inscribed  to  Longfellow 44 

Serenade 46 

Idolatry 48 

The  Victor 51 

The  Waif 53 

To- 54 

The  April  Shower 56 

C;od  Help  Her 58 


PAOE. 

To  the  New  Moon 60 

Winter 62 

The  Husbandman 63 

The  Angels  of  the  Blind 64 

One  I  lope 66 

A  Father  to  His  Sleeping  Child.  68 

The  Storm  F'iend 69 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 73 

Creation 74 

Mon  bijou 76 

Fragment 77 

Tyre 79 

Lost 81 

The  DrearnvT 83 

( I  rand  O/c  !  un- . . , 85 

Morn 87 

The  Spell 88 

Tennyson 90 

The  Prisoner 91 

The  Humming  Bird 94 

Bearla  F\-ine 96 

Lines 98 

Ah!  Yes— Ah!  Yes 100 

The  Storm 103 

The  Belle 104 

'Tis  All  but  a  Dream,  at  the 

Best 105 

The  Requiem 107 

Mirage. . .    109 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  First  Kiss in 

Dawn 112 

Lines — Inscribed  to  His  Royal 
Highness,     the     Prince    of 

Wales 113 

"The  Irish  Wolf" 116 

Whene'er  I  come 118 

Clouds 119 

The  Church  of  Humanity ....  izo 

Impromptu — Her  Eyes 121 

Ocean 122 

Idyl 124 

To  Music 1 26 

Amen....   127 

Song 129 

Address 130 

Swallows 133 

The  Quandary 134 

The  Fatal  Cape 135 

The  Vesper  Hymn ,  136 

February 138 

At  Last !  At  Last  ! 140 

Song 142 

Christmas 143 

Our  Work 145 

The  Angel  of  the  Brook 147 

Her  Tongue 148 

The  Woods 149 

The  Bewildered  River 150 

The  Poet 152 

Eyes 153 

"Tee  Weet" 155 

The  Magic  Mirror 157 

The  Visitor 159 


PAGE. 

Lines 161 

"Totty  " 162 

Joussef's     Soliloquy     in      the 

Storm 164 

Morn * i68 

Resurgam 169 

The  '  •  Bridge  of  Sighs  " 1 70 

The  Spirit  of  Light 173 

Autumn- Song 175 

The  Cray  Liiniet 176 

Assorted  Cems 1 78 

To  Bacchus 179 

Evening. 180 

Tear  Me  From  Her  ? 181 

Song 182 

Found  Drowned  ! 183 

Thanksgiving 185 

To  The  Sea. 186 

Too  Late 188 

The  Cynosure i8g 

Ever  With  Thee 190 

Autumn 191 

Gold 193 

Impromptu 194 

Unborn 195 

"  Come     Out     from    Among 

Them" 196 

The  Enchantress 198 

Gold 199 

Invocation 203 

Lines  :  Be  Still  as  the  Grave . .  205 

Spring 207 

"  How  Long,  O  Lord  ?  " 208 

Come! 210 


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CONTENTS. 


XI 


[96 
198 
99 
103 

05 
07 

08 

10 


PACIE. 

The  Tenant 211 

Spring 213 

The  Olden  Melody 214 

Noon  and  Midnij^ht 216 

Child  of  the  (Jolden  Hair 218 

The  Spectre 220 

Night 221 

Song  of  the  Sale 223 

The  Six  Hundred 226 

National  Music 229 

The  Forbidden  Path 231 

Impromptu    on     a     IJeautiful 

Butterfly 232 

Lines 233 

A  Hero  of  a  Hundred  Fights..   234 

Tiie  Storm  Star 237 

To   An  Embalmed  Humming 

Bird 242 

The  Primrose 244 

Buried  Flowers 245 

Clouds 246 

Mis:^  Nightingale 247 

Up  iii  the  Morn 248 

The  Kerry  Girl 250 

The  Fisherman's  Song 252 

Life's  Turnpike  Gate 254 

The  Convolvulus 256 

Turkish  Maiden's  Song 257 

Lines  —  Written   at    Peterbor- 
ough, Canada 258 

Truth 260 

Nectar 263 


HUMOROUS. 

PAGE. 

The  Rape  of  Thalia 267 

Not  Mal-de-Mer  : — Greeting . .   273 

Kitty  Clare 274 

Impromptu 275 

Serenade 278 

Biddy  Maguire 279 

Asinus  ad  Lyram  ! 281 

Ino  and  Bacchus 283 

The  Devotee 284 

Boston  Tea-Party  No.  2 285 

An  Easy  Lesson  in  Humor  and 

Versification 287 

Early  Joys 290 

Kate  Rooney 292 

Hunted  I  )own 293 

Mick  Grady 296 

Hint  for  January 298 

Retaliation 299 

Matrimony 300 

The  Rainbow 302 

The  Reason  Why 304 

Kitty  Lynch 3°^ 

Paddy  Blake's  "Pinnance"..   308 

Impromptu 31° 

Misplaced  Confidence 311 

Kitty  Fitzibbon 313 

ScHjuential 3'^ 

To  Belva  L 3'8 

An  Aspiration 319 

Not  An  Original 320 


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MADELINE. 


Beside  a  summer  river  that  was  flowing^ 

Clear,  cool  and  gently  through  a  sunny  vale, 

As  though  it  were  a  liquid  west-wind  blowing 

A  sort  of  luscious,  lazy,  silvery  gale 

Between  two  odorous  banks  with  cowslips  glowing 

In  knots  of  tangled  gold,  deep  tinged  and  pale. 

And  morn-tipt  daisies  sprinkling  brakes  of  wildwood, 

The  fairy  haunts  of  memory,  love  and  childhood, 

There  in  a  nook  with  wonderous  beauty  beaming — 
A  mine  of  woodland  jewels  lit  with  showers 
That  left  the  shaded  dell  with  incense  teeming 
As  though  it  were  the  passion  time  of  flowers — 
A  nook  where  Autumn  dozed  in  golden  dreaming 
And  blue-eyed  spring  came  in  her  first  bright  hours, 
Tripping  along  to  robin-red-breast  measures, 
Beneath  a  fragrant  store  of  primrose  treasures — 


—» .-Tk  •-  '" 


^iite*;mii^. 


mmm 


Tm^pi 


^'  •-•••••  0:3        ^^^^ 


2  MADELINE. 

A  sylvan  temple  on  whose  emerald  altar 

Sweet  Nature  spread  her  offerings  to  the  sun, 

While  thrilled  the  raptures  of  her  warbling  psalter, 

Not  doling  out  her  riches,  one  by  one 

With  a  spare  hand  that  ever  seemed  to  falter ; 

IJut  letting  them  in  wild  profusion  run, 

As  though  her  lap  were  heaped  with  each  rare  token, 

And  on  that  spot  her  apron  strings  had  broken. 

Be  patient  !  In  that  dewy  glimpse  of  Eden 
Stood  a  sweet  little  gipsy  of  a  cot, 
White  as  a  dove,  low-eaved  and  woodbine  laden, 
A  sort  of  thatch  and  stone,  "  forget-me-not " — 
But  first' I  should  have  r.poken  of  the  maiden, 
The  living  charm — the  bright,  I  don't  know  what — 
Young  Madeline,  poor  Lady  Bertha's  daughter. 
The  spirit  of  diat  grove  and  shining  water — 

Young  Madeline  who  from  each  dazzling  shoulder 

Seemed  ready  to  shake  out  a  golden  ph  me. 

With  which  'twere  almost  strange  not  to  behold  her, 

Such  nameless  lustre  mingled  with    \  r  bloom  ; 

But,  then,  one  other  touch  too  bright  would  mould  her 

And  seal  the  lovely  incarnation's  doom  ; 

For  heaven  would  see  where  it  o'erstepped  its  duty 

Antl  draw  her  back  within  its  lines  of  beauty. — 


^  -»■- 


MADELINE. 

Young  Madeline  that  struck  you  with  such  wonder- 
That  laughed  all  fabled  loveliness  to  scorn, 
When  e'er  she  drew  her  casement  bars  asunder 
And  waged  her  eye  and  cheek  against  the  morn  ; 
The  bright,  ineffable,  angelic  blunder, 
So  strange  ii  was  that  she  was  earthly  born  : 
But  yet,  not  strangest,  for  in  her  was  given 
The  surest  hostage  of  our  claims  on  heaven. 

Entranced  and  lost  while  on  each  feature  dwelling, 
And  so  bewildered  by  her  radiant  form, 
The  gaze  felt  description  but  mere  spelling 
Through  the  mysterious  volume,  soft  and  warm  ; 
Her  lips,  her  throat,  her  snowy  bosom  swelling. 
Her  hair  as  dark  as  midnight  in  a  storm, 
Were  all  the  sweetest,  whitest,  richest,  rarest, 
Till  she  was  called  "  Young  Madeline  the  fairest." 


But  there  was  one  who  studied  those  pure  pages 

With  all  the  ardor  of  his  heart  and  brain. 

Who  could  have  pondered  o'er  them  through  long  ageSj 

And  still  enraptured  turned  to  them  again 

To  drink  afresh  the  lore  that  tottering  sages 

With  scanty  locks  declare  to  be  in  vain  : 

Young  Edward,  from  Lord  Harold's  distant  towers — 

A  minstrel  of  most  courtly  speech  and  powers. 


4  MADELIA^E. 

'Twas  on  a  balmy  evening'  while  decoying 
The  silvery  tenants  from  that  lovely  stream, 
And  in  the  fulness  of  his  youth  enjoying- 
A  sort  of  calm,  delicious,  waking  dream, 
That  Madeline,  at  once  the  spell  destroying, 
Burst  on  his  vision  like  a  sudden  beam  : 
She,  too,  by  chance, along  the  banks  was  straying, 
Listening  to  what  the  gentle  tide  was  saying. 

They  glanced  each  at  the  other's  matchless  splendor, 

She,  at  his  godlike  form  and  sculptured  face. 

He,  at  the  wondrous  charms  that  seemed  to  lend  her 

The  last  transcendent  touch  of  earthly  grace. 

And  in  ethereal  beauty  heaven-ward  send  her  ; 

But  instantly  she  hastened  to  retrace 

The  path  to  where  her  snow-white  cot  was  gleaming, 

And  left  him  now,  at  least,  securely  dreaming. 

With  pallid  cheek,  next  morn  when  day  was  dawning 
She  left  her  pillow  that  was  sorely  tossed, 
And  sat  beneath  the  f -agrant  woodbine-awning, 
In  strange  sad  reveries,  and  silence  lost  ; 
And,  when  poor  Carlo  came  up  to  her  fawning. 
She  said  she'd  pat  him,  but  her  sleep  was  cross'd 
With  dreams,  that  came  in  spite  of  all  her  wishes. 
"  Of  naughty  sportsmen,  fishing  rods,  and  fishes." 


^f^.  ./H..I  •'T^.^ 


MADELIXE. 


The  pulses  of  her  inmost  soul's  devotion, 
Unconsciously  had  just  begun  to  play, 
Like  his  who  set  them  all  in  such  wild  motion. 
And  ^vho  a^jain  miti^ht  never  pass  that  way  : 
In  truth,  she  launched  out  on  so  vast  an  ocean 
That  she  sat  dreaming  through  the  live-long  day, 
Until  once  more  at  eve  she  sought  the  river 
For  the  sweet  calm  its  music  used  to  give  her. 

'Twas  fate  !  young  Edward  soon  was  close  beside  her. 
Though  on  her  arm  the  lady  Bertha  hung, 
And  did  with  matron  glances  gently  chide  her 
For  the  surprise  that  half  escaped  her  tongue  ; 
But  she  had  native  modesty  to  guide  her  ; 
And  Edward's  glance  was  on  the  waters  flung  ; 
For  he,  of  course,  was  quite  absorbetl  in  fishing  ; 
While  she  to  see  one  caught  was  only  wishing. 

Soon  o'er  the  waves,  the  silken  line  was  tightening. 

And  suddenly,  before  the  maiden's  view. 

The  rod  was  arched,  antl  up  the  stream  like  lightning 

A  shining  creature  in  its  terror  flew. 

Its  ardent  scales  the  purple  waters  brightening 

As  out  they  flashed  in  many  a  changing  hue, 

Until  at  last,  it  was  securely  lying 

Upon  the  bank,  among  the  cowslips,  dying. 


i..ii.iaRiii.«p 


rr^"-"'-'-^^ 


6  MADELINE. 

The  youthful  sportsman  played  his  part  so  featly, 
That  lady  Bertha  covered  him  with  praise  ; 
But  soon  she  found  she  had  not  done  discreetly  ; 
F'or  Madeline's  fair  face  was  in  a  blaze, 
At  words  that  fell  upon  her  ear  so  sweetly, 
And  left  her  tremblinj^  with  averted  jj;-azc  ; 
'Till  she,  to  hide  the  tale  lier  cheek  was  tellings, 
Had  almost  turned  alone  towards  her  dwellingf. 

The  tish,  he  was,  in  sooth,  a  royal  fellow  ; 
His  sides  were  argent,  deepening  into  gokl  ; 
And  all  be-dropt  with  crimson  and  with  yellow 
His  ernerald  back  blazed  forth,  a  thousand  fold. 
His  head  was  ruby-tintetl,  dark  and  mellow, 
In  truth,  he  was  so  glorious  to  behold. 
That  Madeline  took  courage  from  her  mother, 
And  cried  :  "  oh  !  do.  sir,  try  and  catch  another." 

He  bowed,  and  with  some  pleasant  words,  and  smiling, 
Again  the  line  flew  from  the  giddy  reel  ; 
But  this  time,  all  in  vain  the  fly's  beguiling, 
No  fish  approach  its  barbed  sting  of  steel  •, 
But  though  not  dreaming  of  a  touch  defihng 
Her  flowing  veil,  before  which  he  could  kneel, 
He,  somehow  flurried  by  the  words  she  uttered. 
Caught  it  as  on  the  balmy  breeze  it  fluttered, 


"9 


«M«i 


MADELIXE. 

She,  laughing,  clapped  her  liatids  in  sportive  wonder 
Till  her  j^enimcd  tuii^ers  into  lij^htninj^  Hashe«l, 
liecausc  that  he  should  make  so  (lueer  a  blunder, 
And  stand  before  her  pleadinj^f  and  abashed  ; 
But  soon  he  pinched  the  veil  and  hook  asunder, 
And  his  lithe  rod  into  the  current  d.ished  ; 
Ihit  as  the  gauze  back  to  her  shoulders  dantjletl, 
She  wished  it  had  not  been  so  slij^htly  tangled. 

That  eve.  young  Madeline  heard  fond  words  si)oken, 

Such  as  till  then  \\W(\  never  reached  her  ear  ; 

And  when  the  minstrel  won  her  heart's  first  token — 

A  trembling  kiss,  a  raptured  vow  and  tear — 

He  ever  after  came,  with  faith  unbroken, 

And  sang  her  the  sweet  songs  she  loved  to.  hear  ; 

And  told  her  tales  of  proud  Lord  Harold's  splendor, 

From  whom  she  prayed  all  angels  to  defend  her. 

And,  sometimes,  when  he  caught  her  softly  bending 
To  press  the  slumbering  Bertha's  withered  cheek, 
He  felt  his  soul  with  all  her  being  blending  ; 
And  when  his  glowing  tongue  found  words  to  speak, 
He'd  bless  her  for  such  gentle,  tearful  tending 
On  those  chained  footsteps,  now  become  so  weak. 
And  tell  her  that  Lord  Harold  loved  sincerely, 
A  mother,  too,  such  as  she  loved  so  dearly. 


8 


MADEL/XE. 


But,  when  at  last  he  found  her  truth  undying — 
Though  she  believed  that  he  was  poor  in  store — 
One  morn  he  came  with  blazoned  banners  Hying, 
And  stood,  confessed,  Lord  Harold,  at  her  door  ; 
And  on  her  pure  and  generous  soul  relying, 
He  clasped  her  to  his  noble  breast  once  more. 
And  bore  her  off  a  bride  to  those  proud  towers 
That  rose  among  a  wilderness  of  bowers. 


it-igftsswsiaium, 


EDUAN  A.  POE. 


EDGAR  A.   POE. 

The  ghoul  sits  by  his  phuidcrcd  grave, 
Aiui  gii.'iws  his  bleoiling  licart  and  skull  ! 

While  scarce  a  hand  is  stretchetl  to  save 
All  that  was  once  so  beautiful. 

His  lone  remains  are  dragged  about 

Through  vulgar  mire,  and  scorned  and  scoffed  ; 
The  tire-work  of  his  life  gone  out, 

The  blackened  torch  is  held  aloft. 

What  though  his  wondrous  soul  was  thrt)ngcd 
With  pulses  choked  with  fire  and  flame  .'' 

Such  regal  madness  scarce  belonged 
To  any  other  human  name. 


In  whom  had  such  extremes  e'er  met  ? 

To  whom  such  light  and  darkness  given  ? 
Though  hell  had  his  lost  feet  beset, 

His  head  blazed  in  the  light  of  heaven. 


iA 


|t 


JO 


/■///•;  J'lKST  HATir, 


THE  FIRST  HATH.* 

Ontp:  more  God  leans  against  the  purple  bars 
That  close  the  rosy  portalr.  of  the  day, 
Till,  slowly  throuj^h  a  mist  of  fad  in  j^  stars, 
before  His  shinin<j^  shoulder  they  give  way, 
And  outward  rolls  his  treasurer,  the  sun, 
Unpacking  gold  upon  the  mountains  height. 
And  biniling  trembling  glories  into  one. 
Till  all  the  pure,  young  earth  is  lilleil  with  light; 
\N'hilc  wonderous,  changing  webs  of  jeweled  gauze 
From  out  his  great,  round  coffers  of  the  sea, 
Far  up  the  heavens  with  lustrous  hand  he  draws 
To  turban  up  his  eastern  majesty. 

And  now  they  drape  him  through  the  sultry  hours, 
Lest  all  his  splendors,  in  their  noontide  glow, 
Should  fall  too  fiercely  on  the  new-made  flowers 
That  bless  him  with  their  dewy  thanks  below, 
Where  work  the  hidden  harvest's  golden  moles 
In  tender  shoots  and  still  uiiconscious  buds  ; 
Until,  at  last,  the  secret  treasure  rolls 
Through  amber  vales,  or  gleams  in  mellow  woods. 

♦  See  ((/)  Appendix  for  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes'  letter  on  this  poem. 


Tur.  j/A'sr  /i.r/'//. 


It 


But  sec! — beneath  his  warm,  decliniiij^  hcaiu, 
One  eoMu-s,  in  heaiity  flasliinj^^  with  surprise, 
Superbly-  naked,  to  a  crystal  stream, 
The  lirst  that  ever  met  her  radiant  eyes  ; 
Anil  as,  with  hps  apart  and  (puckened  l)k)i)d, 
iSlie  siuhlen  i)aiises  in  the  l)ri<,'ht  retretit, 
She  sees  an  an<^el  in  the  sihery  Hood 
With  emerald  sandals  on  her  pearly  feet. 


A  moment,  and  amid  the  mirrored  skies 
That  seem  comminyfled  with  the  starry  sands. 
She  steals,  and,  bendinjjf  in  her  whiteness,  tries 
To  catch  the  water  spirit  in  her  hands. 
Stranj^e,  sparklin<j  plashes  meet  her  eye    and  ear  ; 
And,  now.  with  fervid  innocence  she  sees 
The  angel  stooping',  too,  within  her  si)here. 
With  diamonds  rippling  round  her  snowy  knees, 
Nearer  an<l  nearer  still,  the  trembling  jKiir 
Approach,  half  smiling  and  all  eager-eyed, 
Until,  at  last,  their  forms  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one    within  the  da/zling  tide. 


12 


GERMAN  STUDENT'S  SONG. 


GERMAN  STUDENT'S  SONG. 

Wine  !  skeleton,  wine  ! — Ho  !  come  let  us  quaff, 
And  I'll  toll  out  a  song  or  a  churchyard  jest, 
Till  the  boom  of  your  deep,  sepulchral  laugh 
Makes  the  cobwebs  shake  in  your  dusty  chest. 

For  the  purple  lash  of  this  sunny  flood 
Flog-s  the  lagging  pulse  till  it  snaps  its  chain, 
And  the  fierce,  red  hoofs  of  the  maddened  blood 
Dash  in  fire  through  the  gorges  of  the  brain. 

In  the  sulks  of  death  for  a  hundred  years 
You  have  sat  in  that  mouldy,  oaken  chair, 
In  the  awful  hush  of  those  hollow  sneers, 
And  the  gulf  of  that  blind,  appalling  stare. 


I 


Then  fill,  till  the  magic  works  apace. 
And  the  liquid  rainbow's  bubbling  dyes 
Flush  the  dusky  stone  ot  your  rayless  face. 
And  light  the  dead  signals  of  your  eyes — 


GERMAN  STUDENl  'S  SO.VC.  j 3 

Till  the  mufilecl  feet  of  yoursHent  soul 
Tread  the  depths  of  that  gloomy  vault  once  more, 
And  the  tide  of  mirth,  sparkb",;-  bright  as  the  bowl, 
Rolls  again  through  that  bolted  cavern  door. 

Wine  !  skeleton,  wine  !  Ho  !  come  let  us  quaff, 
Till  the  revel  swells  to  a  fearful  shout, 
And  the  dip  of  your  wild,  unearthly  laugh 
Knocks  in  red    hot  cinders  my  heart  about. 


14 


WHY  DOST  riiou  tarry? 


WHY  DOST  THOU  TARRY?* 

Among  the  fragrant  blossoms  of  the  South 

That  blow  the  golden  orange  from  their  lips, 
And  where  from  the  sweet  jasmin's  amber  mouth, 

The  honey-bee  its  subtle  nectar  sips, 
While,  burning  through  the  halo  of  his  wings 

That  murmur  round  \\'\\\\  like  an  unseen  lute, 
The  humming-bird  in  suilden  glory  swings 

I'^rom  dewy  bells,  like  some  enchanted  fruit; 


And  where  beneath  the  cool  o'erspreading  vine, 

Tangled  with  light  the  purple  shadows  sleep, 
And  emerald  waters  tremulously  shine, 

Or  down  the  dell  in  jewelled  laughter  lea]\ 
While  through  the  damasked  gloom,  on  every  blast, 

A  thousands  censers  all  their  perfumes  pour  ; 
And  Echo,  like  some  memory  of  the  past, 

Sings  the  sweet  songs  that  wake  her,  o'er  and  o'er, 

*  Sec  Appoiulix  (/')  for  Dr.  Holmes'  letter  on  these  verse 


JV//V  nos r  thou  tarr  y?  15 

Why  (lost  thou  tarry,  maiden  of  the  Spring-? 

']'hink"st  thou  that  there  are  Northern  hps  and  eyes 
That  ean  sui)ply  the  roses  tiu)u  wouhl'st  brin^, 

And  compensate  us  for  thy  absent  skies  ? 
Or  think'st  thou  there  are  silvery  voices  here 

That  speak  tlie  music  of  those  fairy  vales, 
And  balmy  sighs  whose  treasures  are  as  dear 

As  the  pure  incense  of  thy  softest  gales  ? 


Come  !  shininjjf  loiterer,  come  !  nor  longer  stay, 

And  let  thy  leafy  gems  and  openings  flowers 
Be  spilled,  like  stars  along  the  milky-way, 

Upon  this  cold,  reluctant  sod  of  ours. 
Come  with  thy  zephyrs  and  thy  sparkling  streams, 

And  feathered  throng  of  every  throat  ?fnd  i)lume ; 
Come  with  thy  eor(Mial  of  buds  and  beams 

Come,  fragrant-footed  angel  of  the  bloom. 


rn^ 


i6 


LINES, 


LINES. 


1 1  '•'. 


On  viewing  an  exquisitely  painted  portrait  of  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Robert  Belford. 

This  is  no  glowing  fiction  of  the  brain  ; 
This  foim  and  face  no  fabled  charms  express, 
But  here  are  mirrored  simply  to  explain 
A  real  creation's  perfect  loveliness. 


Yet,  we  but  catch  her  outward  graces  here  ; 
The  pencils  skill  could  not  combine  with  these 
Her  guileless  heart  and  sympathetic  tear, 
Her  unbought  friendships  and  true  charities 


Her  silvery  laugh — the  music  of  her  soul — 
Her  glorious  eyes  that  hold  us  in  such  thrall- 
Her  regal  mei'.i  and  sweetness  whose  control 
Has  made  such  willing  subjects  of  us  all : 


But  since  with  these  art  cannot  truly  deal 

So  much  is  hidden  deep  within  her  breast 

Let  us  accept  all  that  it  may  reveal, 

For  heaven  will,  one  day,  blazon  all  the  rest. 


CHRISTMAS  CHIMES. 


17 


CHRISTMAS  CHIMES.     ■         '^f^^-^^  . 


I. 

Once  again  ! — to  the  days  of  the  Barons  of  old, 

When  the  flagons  of  silver  blazed  bright  on  the  board, 
And  the  bacchanal  roared 

Amid  bucklers  and  banners  and  baldricks  of  gold, 
And  the  flash  of  the  eye  and  the  flash  of  the  sword ; 

When  the  spears  shook  aloft  their  red  fingers  of  steel, 
And  the  hollow  mail  clattered  and  cheered  on  the 
walls, 

Through  the  echoing  halls, 
While  the  minstrels  broke   out,  and  so   maddened  the 
])eal 
That  the  broad-chested  steeds  neighed  afar  in  their 
stalls  : 


And  the  revel  at  last  rang  so  furiously  out 

That  the  arrows,  close  packed,  almost  sung  in  their 

sheaves. 
*  See  (/)  Appendix  for  Dr.  Holmes'  remarks  on  this  poem. 


d^Mb 


i8 


CHRIS  7 \MAS  CHIMES. 


Among  helmets  and  greaves, 
And  the  crossbows  and  gauntlets  that,  scattered  about, 
Strewed  the  dark,  oaken  floor  of  the  castle  hke  leaves  ; 

When  the   Lord   of  the   Wassail    rose,    flushed   to   the 
brow, 
And,  swinging  his  massive  cup  high  in  the  air. 
In  the  torches'  red  glare, 
Pledged  the  Land  of  the  Holly  and  Mistletoe-bough, 
Qualiling  deep  to  the  brave — deeper  still,  to  the  fair ; 

While   adown  to  the  sea   turret,  tower,  and  spire 

In  a  full-throated  chime  poured  each  deep,  iron  lung. 
And  the  yule-log's  red  tongue 
Licked  the  huge  stony  chops  of  its  cavern  of  fire, 

As  the  flame  through  its  murky  throat  thundered  and 
sung  ; 

And  the  haughty  retainers  stood  up  in  a  line. 

Before  great,  smoking  haunches,  and  lustily  cheered 
When  the  boar's  head  appeared. 
And  arose  from  the  feast  with  their  beards  drenched 
with  wine, 
Till  the  revelry  died  away,  weary  and  weird. 


mm 


ClfRISTMAS  ClIJMES, 


'9 


II. 

And  once  more  !     But  we  turn  from  the  grim  days  of 
yore 
To  the  land  of  the  Forest — the  Land  of  the  INIine 
That's  for  thee  and  for  thine — 
The  Tand  of  tlie  River,  the  Cedar,  the  Pine — 

Of  the  blue,  spreading  seas,  and  the  cataraet's  roar, 


Where   rough  wedges  of  gold  pave   the  broad,   husky 
fields, 
And  the  maple-tree  ojics  its  sweet,  jielican  veins, 
Till  its  honied  store  rains. 
And  the  bright,  winnowed  wealth  that  the  lieavy  sheaf 
yields 
Lies,    like    heaps    of    seed-pearl     scattcrcHl    over   the 
plains — 


The  land  wlicre  abundance  shall  never  decrease — 
The  land  of  brown  toil  and  tlie  stout  pioneer, 
And  the  swift-footetl  deer, 

That    now,  must  'mid  offerings  of  pleasure  and  peace, 
Lay  his  head  on  the  white  altar-stone  of  the  year. 


20 


CHRIS  TMAS  CHIMES. 


And  what  though  there  may  not  be  found  at  our  board 
All  the  glow  of  the  past,  with  its  crimson  and  gold, 
And  its  splendors  untold — 
With  its  trappings  of  war,  and  its  vassal  and  lord, 

When  our  blood  has  been  nursed  through  the  brave 
days  of  old  ? 

And  what  though  we've  few  ivied  abbeys,  and  towers 
Swinging  out  on  the  air  their  glad  festival  chimes  ? 
We've  old  legends  and  rhymes, 

And  great  memories  to  hallow  this  history  of  ours 
In  the  knowledge  and  light  of  much  happier  times. 


Then  come — while  the  cup  circles  joyously  now — 
A  bright  mistletoe-branch  of  the  cedar  and  pine 
Let  us  fondly  entwine, 

And  lead  some  young  beauty  beneath  the  green  bough, 
And  preserve  of  the  past  all  that's  truly  divine. 


THE  GREAT  IRON  CYCLOPS. 


21 


THE  ORKAT  IRON  CYCLOPS. 

Thk  Great  Iron  Cyclops  came  down,  through  the  nij^ht, 

At  a  pace  that  seemed  never  to  tire  ; 
And  the  echoes  around  him  cried  out,  in  affrigfht, 

As  he  thundered  along,  in  his  terrible  might, 
\\'ith  his  plume  of  smoke  spangled  with  tire. 

And  to  rival  the  strides  of  the  temjicst  he  sought, 

'Till  it  rode,  like  a  footman,  behind  ; 
For  his  swift,  Hashing  limbs  were  mysteriously  wrought 

Of  the  brawn  and  the  sinews  of  ages  of  thought, 
'Till  they  coped  with  the  speed  of  the  wind. 


Through  deep-cloven  mountains,  and  valleys  he  Hew, 
And  throu£rh  sullen  wastes  ruijofcd  and  bare. 

While  the  cities  in  handfuls  l)ehind  him  he  threw. 

And  his  breath  in  hot  gusts  through  his  nostrils  he 
blew. 

As  a  whale  blows  the  sea  in  the  air. 


t:;l 


Twrnp^mfm"'* 


r 


22 


THE  (JK/:at /A'ox  cvc/.ors. 


But  through  regions  of  silence  antl  coUhiess  and  gloom 

Though  he  sped  his  miraculous  way, 
They  burst  forth  anon  into  sunshine  and  bloom, 

While  the  Spirit  of  Commerce  leaped  forth  from  their 
womb, 
And  shook  out  her  young  plumes  to  the  day  ; 


J! 


For  the  nations  that  long  had  lain  buried  in  sleep, 

Now  awoke,  v.'ith  a  start,  at  liis  roar  ; 
While  the   lone   maiden   ships  that  had  toiled  on   the 
deep. 
And  had  jiined  for  a  spouse,  felt  their  white  bosoms 
leaji  * 

As  he  called  them  in  crowds  to  the  shore. 


And  still  onward  he  sweeps    towards  far  distant  strands 

With  his  banner  of  progress  unfurl'd, 
Binding  blue  seas  together,  and  linkinir  stranjrc  lands, 

And  urging  the  whole  human  race  to  strike  hands, 
'Till  one  pulse  shall  pervade  all  the  world ! 


A  KOVAL  A  ACE. 


2$ 


A  ROYAL  RACE. 

Among  the  fine  old  kings  that  reign 
L'i)()n  a  simple  wooden  throne, 

'Ihcre's  one  with  but  a  small  domain, 
Vet,  mark  you,  it  is  all  his  own. 


;c  bosoms 


And  though  upon  his  rustic  towers 
Xo  ancient  standard  waves  its  wing, 

Thick,  leafy  banners  tlushcd  with  flowers, 
From  all  the  fragrant  casements  swing. 


And  here,  in  royal  homespun,  bow 

His  nut-brown  court,  at  night  and  morn,- 

The  bronzed  Field-Marshal  of  the  Plough, 
The  Chancellor  of  Wheat  and  Corn, 


The  Keeper  of  the  Colden  Stacks, 
The  Mistress  of  the  Milking-Pail, 

The  bold  Knights  of  the  Ringing  Axe, 
The  Heralds  of  the  Sounding  Flail, 


? 


rf 


tail 


84  A  KOYAt.  RACE. 

The  Ladies  of  the  New-Mown  Hay, 
The  Master  of  the  Spade  and  Hoe, 

The  Minstrels  of  tlie  (ilorious  Lay- 
That  uU  the  Sons  of  Freedom  know. 

And  thus,  while  on  the  seasons  roll, 
He  wins  from  the  inspiring^  sod 

The  brawny  arm  and  noble  soul 
That  serve  his  country  and  his  God 


THE  PEAKL. 


»5 


TIIK  PKAKL 


TnK  seasons  are  but  Nature's  jewelled  rinJ,^ 

Where,  set  in  chant^ing  splendors,  we  behold 

'I'lie  pearly  winter  and  the  em'rald  spring, 

The  ruby  summer  and  the  autumn's  gold 

In  the  rieh  eeinture  ever  varying  ; 

And  where  the  daz/.ling  lingers  of  the  sun, 

That  fling  the  tinted  shuttles  of  the  light, 

Present  the  jewels  to  us  one  by  one, 

Forever  circling  and  forever  bright, 

And  where,  when  all  the  fervid  heats  are  done. 

The  cool,  pale  jiearl  is  turned  ujion  our  sight, 

That  we  may  revel  in  a  new  tlelight, 

And  to  our  Autumn,  Spring,  and  Summer  lays 

Add  yet  one  other  song  of  grateful  praise. 


rf ' 


20 


TIJE  MAN/AC'S  INVOCATION. 


\ 


\ 


THE    MANIACS   LWOCATION. 

Stand  forth  thou  gaunt  destroyer  of  our  race  ! 

Know  that  thou  hast  no  terrors  now  for  me ; 
I'd  beard  thee  tyrant  to  thy  very  face, 

And  spit  upon  thy  rayless  majesty. 
Uncoil  thy  hungry  worms  ! — ho  !  let  them  free, 

To  banquet  on  the  ruins  of  thi-^  heart  ; 
I  fling  the  dark  repast  to  them  and  thee. 

Stand  forth,  I  say  again,  whate'er  thou  art  ! 


Ha !  coward,  thou  would'st  steal  upon  thy  prey, 

As  that  poor,  silent  sleeper  there  m'ght  tell. 
Whose  cheek  was  flushed  by  thee  from  day  to  da^- 

With  the  damned  \'ermil  of  thy  surest  spell  ; 
But  I,  curs't  idiot,  should  have  known  full  well 

Thou  wert  but  fanning  her  life's  coal  away 
'Till  it  should  blacken  in  thy  nether  hell. 

Stand  forth,  what  e'er  thou  art !  again  I  say. 


77IE  MAX/ AC'S  INWCATIOX. 

Through  many  a  long,  long  night  of  agony 

Witli  that  false  meteor  thou  hast  let  me  grope 
By  the  drear  waters  of  thy  starless  sea, 

Twisting  my  very  heart  strings  into  rope 
To  lash  her  to  the  last  frail  plank  of  hope 

That  the  cold  tide  was  stealing  from  her  then. 
Oh  !  I  am  mighty  ! — Dar'st  thou  with  me  cope  ? 

Stand  forth,  whate'er  thou  art,  I  say  again. 


27 


'Tis  madness  ! — but  the  fearful  frenzy's  past, 

Nor  shall  I  name  thee,  fiend  or  tyrant  now  ; 
No  ! — thou  wcrt  gentle  with  her  to  the  last, 

And  set  thy  fairest  signet  on  her  brow  ; 
Then  let  mc  to  thy  sovereign  mandate  bow  : 

But,  how  can  I  look  on  thee  as  before  ? 
Thou  who  hast  blasted  every  pulse  ! — Yes,  thou  ! 

Stand  forth  whate'er  tliou  art  I  say  once  more  ! 


^ 


\ 


in 


') 


I: 


it.a, 


^ 


28 


"  Ojvl  y  A  ifoa/AjV's  hair:' 


"ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  HAIR." 


Some  time  after  the  death  of  Dean  Swift,  tliere  was  found  amoiiij; 
his  private  papers,  a  small  and  carefully  folded  packajije,  bearing  the 
above  inscription. 


Lone,  wayward  one    who  o'er  that  dark  tress  lingers 
With  that  strange  smile  of  white-lipped  agony 
That's  but  the  smothered  cry  of  thy  despair, 
Where  are  her  darker  eyes  and  rosy  lingers, 
Or  is  that  all  that  now  is  left  to  thee — 
That  shining  tress  "  only  a  woman's  hair  ?  " 
Lone,  wayward  one  that  aimless  o'er  it  lingers, 
Where  are  her  lips  and  eyes  and  rosy  fingers  ? 

Has  memory  fixed  thee  thus  in  stone  before  her 
With  all  thy  pulses  motionless  and  mute- 
A  dumb,  deaf  statue,  bHndly  kneeling  there  ; 
She  the  adored,  ami  thou  the  fierce  adorer 
Grasping  the  lute-strings  of  a  broken  lute — 
That  raven  lock,   ''  only  a  woman's  luiir?  " 
Has  memory  fixed  thee  thus  in  stone  before  her, 
She  the  adored,  anil  thou  the  fierce  adorer? 


"  OxVLY  A  WOMAN'S  HAIR. 


29 


)UIkI  anioiii^ 
bearing  the 


lin*:^ers 


er 


?r, 


Oh  !  what  dread  desolation,  lost  and  lonel}'', 

lieneath  that  ghastly  gleam  of  mirth  is  hid, 

But  none  shall  lay  the  anguished  secret  bare, 

That's  summed  and  syllabled  in  that  word,  "  only  " 

'J'hat  hollow  thud  upon  the  cothn  lid. 

A  woman's  hair — "only  a  woman's  hair" — 

Oh  !  what  deep  desolation  lost  and  lonely 

Is  summed  and  syllabled  in  that  word,   "only." 

No  sign  of  life — no  coming  sign  or  token 

To  close  the  door  of  that  dark  sepulchre. 

But  still,  that  vacant  smile  and  empty  stare. 

Ah  !  surely,  surely  thy  young  heart  was  broken, 

And  madness  came  when  that  was  left  by  her. 

That  fatal  tress — "  only  a  woman's  hair," 

No  sign  of  life,  no  coming  sign  or  token  ; 

Ah  !  surely  then,  thy  poor,  young  heart  was  l)roken. 

I'd  breathe  into  thine  ear  and  disenchant  thee. 

Nor  Stella  nor  Vanessa  should  1  name — 

The  shadow  only  of  thy  love  was  there — 

If  I  could  feign  her  voice  that  comes  to  haunt  thee. 

I'd    breathe     thy     name    and  turn  thee  into  flame, 

While  murmuring  thus,  "  only  a  woman's  hair." 

I'd  whisper  in  thine  ear  and  disenchant  thee. 

If  I  could  feign  that  N'oice  that  comes  to  haunt  thee. 


^™^-T^ 


30 


TO  THE  RIGHT-HAND, 


f 


TO  THE  RIGHT-HAND. 

I. 

Thou  great  Interpreter  of  Human  Thou^ifht, 
And  Builder  in  the  realms  of  Wealth  and  Fame, 
Had  Archimedes'  self  that  lever  brought 
To  bear  upon  this  globe's  gigantic  frame,* 
Its  form  antl  thine  had  surely  been  the  same  ; 
For  thou  hast  called  a  mighty  world  from  nought- 
The  world  of  Art  where  all  thy  works  proclaim 
That  Matter,  of  whatever  grade  or  kind, 
Is  simply  but  the  potter's  clay  of  Mind. 


II. 

Antiquity  itself  with  thee  began, 
Thou  wert  the  first  to  draw  the  jealous  line 
That  runs  between  the  Anthropoid  and  Man 
And  makes  the  latter  palpably  divine 

*  Archimedes  is  allei,'ecl  to  liave  said,  tliat  if  he  had  an  adequate 
spot  upon  which  to  place  a  fulcrum,  he  coukl  construct  a  lever  that 
woulil  move  the  world. 


TO  THE  K2GHTJIAND. 


31 


Makes  him  the  climax  and  the  three-fold  sign 
Of  that  familiar  though  unfathomed  plan 
Where  Soul  and  Spirit  their  vast  strength  combine, 
Yet,  bound  as  giants  by  a  single  mesh, 
Lie  tangled  in  the  spider's  web  of  flesh. 

III. 

In  vain  the  mystic  problem  we  essay, 
A  vail  eternal  hangs  before  its  face  ; 
There  does  not  seem  to  fall  one  single  ray 
Upon  the  age  or  birth-place  of  our  race. 
Whatever  foot-prints  we  attem])t  to  trace 
Soon  in  the  gathering  darkness  fade  away, 
And  we,  anon,  perceive,  with  weary  pace, 
Antiquity  itself  fall  back  aghast 
Before  the  deepening  gloom  of  its  own  past. 


IV. 

Full-blown  beginnings  scarce  exist  in  name 
Save  where  the  mind  refuses  to  be  free  ; 
The  errors  of  primeval  thought  became 
The  matrix  of  all  true  jihilosophy  ; 
And  there  are  none  to  solve  the  mystery — 
Not  one  to  question — none  to  praise  or  blame, 


"Ill      ipiilHIfl 


y_jin"L.' 


32 


-Ifl 


7V  THE  RIGHT-HAND. 

All — all  is  lost  in  dread  obscurity — 

Is  lost  because  the  wherefore  and  the  whence 

Transcend  the  narrow  bounds  of  time  and  sense. 

r. 

To  solve  the  origin  of  things,  would  be 

','0  fancy  some  Rosetta-stone  of  space 

L... I  ante-dated  its  own  pedigree 

And  'iv   le  the  facts  ere  they  had  taken  place, 

S  '  that  '.'iiture  should  the  Past  embrace  ; 

Reversing  .  .0  Vv'hole  course  of  destiny 

And  building  from  the  summit  towards  the  base, 

Or,  what  the  crudest  intellect  rejects. 

Placing  all  causes  after  their  effects. 

VI. 

Of  this  stupendous  secret  we  but  know 

That  a  dark  ocean  boundless  and  sublime, 

A  Past  and  Present  for  its  ebb  and  flow 

Once  broke  in  sunlight  on  the  shores  of  Time. 

The  depths  we  fathom  or  the  heights  we  climb 

No  further  features  of  the  secret  show, 

Till  one  might  fancy,  nor  be  charged  with  crime- 

liut  for  the  signet  that  all  things  impress — 

That  matter  was  a  freak  of  iiothinirness 


TO  THE  RIGHT-nAND» 


33 


lence 
d  sense. 


lace, 
ice  ; 

he  base, 


VII. 

We  need  not  ask  thee  what  thy  P'aith  of  Old. 
Or  try  to  catch  its  ever- varying  phase, 
Thou  didst  the  gods  of  early  India  mould, 
And  those  of  Kgyi)t  though  in  later  days  ; 
And  altars  to  Jehovah  thou  didst  raise, 
And  to  his  Mightiness  the  Golden  Calf 
That's  still  set  up  in  our  most  sacred  ways, 
Where  His  ]>crsuasive  influence  we  feel, 
Although  the  fact  we  struggle  to  conceal. 


VIII. 


rnie. 
climb 


But  of  thy  eccentricities  of  yore, 

Thy  whims  in  dates  most  singular  appear. 

Right  Hand,  the  pages  of  our  gravest  lore 

Set  forth  thy  many  derelictions  here. 

How  strange  that  we  should  doubt  and  yet  rcvere- 

Doubt,  that  but  just  three  thousand  years  before, 

Man  lirst  appeared  upon  this  earthly  sphere. 

And  that  with  all  the  time  that  since  has  run 

We've  had  but  just  six  thousand  years  of  sun. 


>, 


I 


'X 


\ 


I; 


34 


TO  THE  RIGHT-HAND, 


IX. 


Still,  were  it  not  for  errors  and  their  ruth, 
This  world  had    been  a  heritag^e  of  fools. 
Errors  are  simply  but  the  husks  of  Truth, 
The  stripping  off  of  which  is  but,  in  sooth, 
The  methods  of  all  progress  and  the  schools 
Where  age  becomes  the  antidote  of  youth, 
And,  in  its  wide  and  deep  experience,  rules 
That  Good  and  Evil,  in  their  seeming  strife, 
Are  simply  but  the  stepping-stones  through  life. 


X. 


Only  a  Myth  can  serve  those  higher  needs 
Where  Facts  would  but  discomfiture  entail. 
There's  something  in  the  errors  of  the  Creeds 
That  each  time  lifts  us  higher  up  to  fail ; 
And  though  we  never  may  the  Light  unvail. 
The  denser  darkness  of  the  gloom  recedes 
As  each  succeeding  height  we  slowly  scale, 
Until  at  last  below  us  calmly  lies 
A  faint  reflection  of  the  upper  skies. 


TO  THE  KIGJITHAND. 


35 


XI. 

All  true  philosophy  is  at  its  case, 
Because  it  ever  to  its  lenses  brings 
A  keen,  discriminating  eye  that  sees 
Infnnte  greatness  in  the  smallest  things, 
And  can  resolve  among  those  hidden  strings 
All  discords  into  perfect  harmonies  ; 
Suspecting,  as  it  reaches  ileeper  springs, 
When  all  the  mazes  of  the  Creeds  are  trod, 
That  Devil  is  but  a  naughty  name  for  God. 


XII. 


Those  in  rapport  with  Nature's  subtle  art 
Perceive,  through  their  illuminated  soul, 
That  what  may  seem  a  blemish  in  a  i)art 
May  be  a  perfect  glory  of  the  whole. 
Our  narrow  dogmas  shut  out  the  true  goal. 
And  make  close  cori)orations  of  our  heart. 
Where  selfish  sentiments  alone  control, 
Although  we  but  receive  in  what  we  give, 
And,  more,  in  others  do  but  truly  live. 


3^ 


TO  THE  Kianr  HAND. 


^ 


XIII. 

No  casuist  has  ever  yet  explained 
The  sharp  conflicting  phases  of  thy  will, 
For  thou  through  all  the  ages  hast  remained 
A  mighty  factor  in  both  good  and  ill, 
Materializing  Mind  with  wondrous  skill  ; 
Lustrous  with  Virtue  and  with  License  stained, 
A  double  destinj'  thou  dcj'st  fultil, 
One  half  of  which  is,  to  the  full  extent, 
The  other  half's  mysterious  complement 


XIV. 


'Tis  curious  that  thou  wert  not  more  alert 
hi  combatting  that  wily  influence 
Which  did  our  early  history  so  pervert 
With  monstrous  fancies  and  absurd  pretence, 
And  foul  injustice  and  false  eloquence  ; 
But  then  in  much  of  what  thou  did  st  assert 
We  scarce  can  hold  thee  guilty  of  offense, 
For  touching  ancient  faiths  w^e  know,  at  least. 
That  every  fact  was  moulded  by  a  priest 


TO  THE  RICHT-1IAXD. 


S7 


XV. 


Much  that  is  found  on  hoary  brick  or  stone 

May  facts  and  eras  truly  indicate  ; 

But,  no  such  tablets  ever  yet  have  shown 

A  single  facet,  word  or  line  or  date 

From  which  our  genesis  ^\  e  could  collate  ; 

Nor  have  those  parchments  or  papyri  thrown 

I'he  feeblest  ray  on  our  benighted  state. 

But,  then,  whatever  truths  in  stone  or  bricks, 

A  manuscript  is  very  full  of  tricks. 


XVI. 


Yet  thou  hast  had  such  various  work  to  do, 

Wert  thou  consistent  it  had  not  been  done  ; 

There  was  no  Old  to  formulate  the  New, 

In  riot  Inspiration  had  begun  ; 

But  there  were  no  true  trophies  to  be  won 

Till  Science  and  Induction  gave  the  clew, 

As  seen  by  some  strange  webs  that  had  been  spun 

Where  startling  mental  colors  were  combined 

By  artists  who,  themselves,  were  color-blind, 


"«^^^ 


?mm 


38 


70  THE  KJailT HAND. 


XVII. 

And  here  thou  wcrt  not  favored  by  the  Fates 
When  thou  didst  soar  on  fancy's  raiidniw  wings 
To  blazon  on  Creation's  morning  gates 
The  wildest  of  thy  wild  imaginings 
Touching  the  birth  of  all  terrestrial  things, 
Which  our  maturer  manhood  so  berates, 
But  still  to  which  our  childhood  fondly  clings, 
And  which,  for  upwards  of  three  thousaml  years, 
Has  set  us,  shallow  doctors,  by  the  ears 


XVIII. 

How  grand,  withal,  the  changes  thou  has  wrought, 
And  how  the  world  has  clothed  itself  of  late, 
But  strange  that  all  thy  battles  should  be  fought 
Against  the  very  gods  thou  did'st  create, 
And  all  were  in  a  dazed  amorphous  state 
Had  not  some  bold  observant  spirit  caught 
That  Fate  was  Law  and  Order,  not  mere  Fate, 
And  that  one  single  link  does  not  contain 
The  length  or  involutions  of  the  chain. 


TO  niE  RUillT  HAXD 


39 


XIX. 

But  time  has  sapped  oUl  Icjjfends  to  tlie  core, 
And  put  our  crainpetl  chronoloj^y  to  fli^^ht  ; 
For  it  can  now  be  i)roven  o'er  and  oer, 
That  ere  our  ([ueer  cosmogony  saw  light 
Or  the  (hm  ages  of  tlie  Troglodyte, 
Men,  like  to  those  who  had  long  gone  before, 
Left  proof  of  their  existence  and  their  plight 
On  many  a  mammoth  tusk  and  reindeer    lorn- 
Aye  !  long  ere  our  anti(iuity  was  born. 


XX. 


And  what  can  now  be  said  when  now  we  know 
That  in  the  gloomy  caves  of  Cambria  * 
More  than  two  hundretl  thousand  years  ago, 
Prc-glacial  man  had  his  mysterious  day. 
And  came,  like  us,  to  li\e  and  pass  away? 
Two  hundred  thousand  years  !    Mow  dire  a  blow  ! 
Can  Superstition  longer  stand  at  bay? 
How  worthless  here  the  labors  of  thy  pen. 
Where  were  thy  Parchments    ami  I'apyri  then  ? 

*  Sec  account  of  discoveries   made   not   long  since  in  the  Valley  of 
Clwyd,  North  Wales. 


40 


TO  THE  RWHT-IIAND. 


!  i  .* 


XXI. 

Here  all  is  mystery  !  all  is  dark  and  dread. 
Save  to  the  brave  Iconoclast  who  feels 
That  broken  idols  and  beliefs  long  dead, 
Should  always  pave  the  temple  where  he  kneels, 
But  that  each  outward  form  of  Faith  conceals 
One  shrine  at  which  the  hungry  soul  is  fed, 
And  meets  a  full  response  to  its  appeals — 
One  altar  from  all  other  shrines  apart 
Set  up  by  Heaven  in  every  human  heart, 


XXII. 

Yet,  let  me  clasp  thee  and  right  heartily  ; 

For  though  thou  first  did'st  move  with  sword  and  flame. 

The  chisel,  brush  and  pen  were  all  of  thee, 

And  in  a  broader,  nobler  chivalry 

Thy  truest  civilizers  soon  became. 

But  what  endears  thee  more  than  all  to  me 

Is  that  thou  did'st  atitix  our  struggling  name 

To  that  grand  Charter  that  set  free  the  Slave, 

And  to  the  world  its  coming  Freedom  gave. 


'm 


TO  DR.  OLIVER  IV END  ELL  J/OLMES. 


41 


lecls, 
lis 


TO  DR.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

On  hkaring  of  the  celebration  of  his  seventy-sixth  hirth- 

IJAY. 

Though  now  the  splen(h)rs  of  the  feast  are  past 
And  all  the  lights  are  dim,  recall  the  wine  ! 
And  let  me,  though  I  am  the  least  and  last, 
Uncovered  drain  one  cup  to  thee  and  thine. 


•d  and  flame, 


Thy  pulses  I  would  not  awake  again  ; 
ikit  only  ask  thee — ere  mine  lose  their  sway — - 
To  let  my  more  than  three  score  years  and  ten 
Drop  this  small  star  into  thy  Milky- Way. 


ke, 


42 


A  JUNE  IDYL. 


A  JUNE  IDYL. 

LiKK  a  fragrant- footed  fawn 
'rripping  through  the  silver  surf, 
Flashing  in  the  azure  dawn 
On  the  radiant,  rolling  turf, 


Tost  and  tinted  in  the  gale 
That  in  sport  around  her  flies, 
See  her  coming  through  the  vale, 
Gathering  sunlight  for  her  eyes. 

Drinking  through  her  sea-shell  ears, 
Music  for  her  panting  throat. 
Pouring  from  the  purple  spheres 
Where  the  early  warblers  float ; 

Dashing  from  the  opening  flowers, 
That  along  her  pathway  drip, 
Clouds  of  balm  and  sparkling  showers 
F&    the  ruby  of  her  lip  ; 


■s, 


^  JCA'E  IDYL. 

And  inhaling  from  the  thorn,    ' 
Odors  wafted  round  her  there  ; 
Till  she  seems  another  morn. 
She's  so  balmy,  fresh,  and  fair. 

Like  a  fragrant-footed  fawn 
Tripping  through  the  silver  surf 
See  her  in  the  rosy  dawn 
On  the  radiant,  rolling  turf. 


43 


wers 


44 


YES,    YES,   YOU  ARE  "^  h'ING. 


YES,  YES,  YOU  ARE  "A  KING." 

[Written  and  inscribed  to  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow,  on 
reading  his  poem,  "From  My  Ann-chair,"  addressed  to  the  chil- 
dren of  Cambridge,  who  liad,  on  his  seventy-second  birthday 
presented  him  a  chair  made  from  the  wood  of  the  "Village 
Blacksmith's  Chestnut-Tree,"  which  he  had  long  since,  immortal- 
ized in  song.    The  poem.opens  with  the  lines: 

"Am  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own. 
This  splendid  ebon  throne  '?  " 


Yes,  you're  "a  king,"  and  yet  shall  call  your  ommi 
A  more  resplendent  and  enduring  throne 
Than  that  on  which  you  make  the  heavens  ring-. 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  "a  king  ;"  you  are  "  a  king  !  " — 


I 


A  prophet,  priest,   and  king,  that  has  made  bloom, 
While  tabernacled  in  that  sacred  room, 
A  leafless  and  a  withered  branch,  once  more. 
As  bloomed  the  Levite's  mystic  rod  of  yore. 


* 


igfellow,  on 
I  to  llie  chil- 
jntl  birthday 
i\\e  "Village 
ce,  immortal- 


r  own 


mg. 


)loom, 


;« 


S 


V/i:S,   YES,   YOU  AA'E  A  KING.  4$ 

And  filled  its  blossoms  with  the  harmonies 
Of  birds,  and  summer  winds,  and  golden  bees, 
And  children's  crystal  voices,  and  the  gleams 
That  now,  alas  !  but  come  to  us  in  dreams. 

Though  through  the  moss-grown  gateway  of  my  years 
I  look,  with  outstretched  arms,  in  silent  tears 
Toward  my  youth,  the  prodigal  I  mourn, 
Dead  to  my  grief,  refuses  to  return  ; 

But  when  the  sainted  past  inspires  your  lay, 
And  I  can  hear  you  calling  far  away, 
A  deep  enchantment  on  me  falls,   and  then 
I  am  at  play  in  childhood  once  again. 

Such  measures  fill  these  barren  wastes  of  ours 
With  buds,  and  beams,  and  fairest  fruits  and  flowers  , 
That  yet,  once  more,  the  suffering  soul  may  sing — 
Bethesda's  spray,  shook  from  an  angel's  wing. 

You  are  "a  king!  "     And  if  for  one  more  gem 
There's  place  in  your  o'ercrowded  diadem, 
Take  this  that  now  falls  glittering  on  my  breast. 
And,  though  unworthy,  place  it  near  the  rest 


§ee  (a)  Appendix  for  Mr.  Longfellow's  letter  of  acknowledgment. 


I.     I    I  IM«MI,I. 


^ '  i 

ft'   : 


46 


SEKEAADE. 


SERENADE. 


IM 


See  the  moon,  brig^ht  as  noon,  silvers  over  the  beautiful 

sea, 
Where  the  waves,  purple  slaves,  are  waiting  Esmali  for 

thee, 
Till  the  gale  fills  our  sail  as  they  murmuring  bear  us 

along, 
While,  fond  clear,   in  thine  car   lost  in  rapture,  I  breath  a 
low  song. 
Echoes  !  Echoes!  are  warbling  in  yonder  vale; 
List  !  0,  list !  'tis  the  song  of  the  nightingale. 
Wake  !  O,  wake  !  for  the  night  is  waning  fast, 
Haste  !  O,  haste !  ere  it's  loveliness  is  past. 


See  the  moon,  bright  as  noon,  silvers  over  the  beauti- 
ful sea, 

Where  the  waves,  purple  slaves,  are  waiting  Esmali 
for  thee. 


SERENADE. 


47 


Dearest,  then  hear  my  prayer.      T.ingcr  no  longer  there. 
Open  thy  casement  l)ars.      Come  forth  among  the  stars. 
l*'ly  t(^  my  arms  my  love,  pure  as  the  heaven    above, 
This  is    the   witching  time.      Haste    ere  the    midnight 
chime. 
See  the  moon,  bright  as  noon,  silvers  over  the  beauti- 
ful sea. 
AVhcre  the  waves,  purple  slaves,  are  waiting  Ksmali 
for  thee. 


4? 


JDOLATRY. 


\\ 


IDOLATRif. 

Whkther  we  prostrate  fall  or  bend  the  knee, 
Or  bow  with  faces  turned  towards  the  east, 
Whate'er  the  creed,  or  color  of  the  priest, 
Are  we  not  guilty  of  Idolatry  ? 

To  us  all  Nature,  eloquent  and  terse, 
Simply  presents  a  g-reat  Primeval  Cause 

Immutable  of  essence  and  of  laws 

The  Guide  and  Author  of  the  universe. 


A  mystery  uncreate,  whose  secret  springs 

Set  all  created  faculties  at  naught. 

That  does  not  come  within  the  range  of  Thought, 

Or  scope  of  the  Analysis  of  things. 


t  \ 


I  DO  LA  TRY. 


49 


A  wondrous  whole  with  neither  form  nor  parts, 
That  we  attempt  in  various  sliapes  to  seize, 
To  satisfy  those  small  philosophies 
That  so  contract  and  honeycomb  the  heart 

Whatever  semblances  we  may  adore, 
They're  all  in  essence  palpably  the  same, 
And  differ  only  as  to  form  and  name  : 
They  are  but  myth  and  matter  to  the  core. 

But  who  shall  venture  to  condemn  us  here  ? 
Is  it  not  darkness  groping  for  the  light — 
The  finite  yearning  for  the  infinite 
That  never  comes  though  ever  drawing  near  ? 

Some  idol  seems  the  souls  necessity  ; 

It  is  a  declaration  of  our  need 

Of  something  more  than  mortal  for  our  creed — 

A  something  that  we  fain  would  feel  and  see. 


Thus,  one  conception  centering  in  the  whole, 

Unites  all  faiths,  both  rude  and  civilized 

By  all  one  unseen  power  is  recognized, 
That  holds  the  universe  in  its  control. 


■H 


50  IDOLATRY. 

So  that  despite  the  daintiness  we  feel 

\\\  touching  skirts  witii  others  in  the  street, 

At  whatsoever  shrine  we  chance  to  meet, 

There's  one  broad  plank  on  which  we  all  can  kneel. 


lliough  gods  sliould  crowd  our  sanctuary  shelves, 
Our  heart  of  hearts  may  still  be  pure  and  free. 
There's  only  danger  in  idolatry 
When  we  set  up  the  idol  of  ourselves. 


THE   riCTOK. 


5> 


Tin:  VICTOR. 

In  the  full  flush  of  her  sweet  nuiidenhood, 
A  fair  youiij^  peasant,  weary  of  the  way, 

Sat  down  to  rest  within  a  summer  wood, 

But  soon  among  the  wild  flowers  sleepinj^  lay. 

A  youth,  of  high  degree  and  ardent  soul, 

liy  chance  came  drcammg  through  the  dim  retreat ; 
And  all  unconsciously  upon  her  stole, 

Till,  startled,  he  beheld  her  at  his  feet. 

So  helpless  she  and  of  such  lowly  mien. 

It  seemed  as  though  none  cared  for  the  sweet  maid; 
But,  had  he  other  eyes,  he  might  have  seen 

Two  angels  standing  near  her  in  the  shade. 


He  ga;?ed  enchanted  on  her  lovely  face, 

Now  turned,  in  some  sweet  dream,  toward  the  skies, 
When,  struck  with  all  her  innocence  and  grace, 

He,  too,  looked  upward  with  imploring  eyes. 


5^ 


THE  I'lCTOK. 


And  silently  his  red  lips  moved  in  prayer 

When  suddenly  a  change  came  o'er  his  brow  ; 

And  he  no  longer  stood  bewildered  there 
For  sweet  compassion  tilled  his  bosom  now 

He  asked  for  what  had  freely  been  bestowed, 
Strength  to  be  noble,  generous  and  true  ; 

And,  while  his  heart  with  gratitude  o'erflowed, 
One  of  the  angels  closer  to  him  drew 

When  stooping  gently  forward,  where  he  stood. 
He  placed  a  rosebud  on  the  sleeper's  breast  ; 

And  then  stole  noiselessly  from  out  the  wood, 
And  left  her  to  her  purity  and  rest. 

But  when  she  woke,  and,  wondering,  found  the  flower, 
There  stood  but  one  bright  angel  by  her  side  ; 

The  other  had  gone  forth,  and,  from  that  hour. 
Became,  through  life,  the  youthful  V^ictor's  guide 


TUK  WAIF. 


5J 


THE  WAIF. 

Oh  !  poor  little  barefooted,  hollow-cheeked  thing, 
How  early  dost  thou  and  thy  destiny  meet  ; 
Neither  hrij^ht  bud  nor  blossom  thou  coniest  in  spring, 
Hut  a  windfall  of  childhood  struck  down  at  our  feet. 

How  aged  and  how  cold  the  sad  light  of  those  eyes, 
And  how  quenched  every  tint  on  that  sorrowful  face. 
Where  we  tind  as  we  seek  for  thy  lips'  rosy  dyes 
Hut  the  trembling  blue  lines  of  dead  joy  in  their  place. 

Lonely  waif,  tossed  about  mid  the  wimls  and  the  rain. 
In  this  terrible  struggle  for  shelter  and  bread, 
Oh,  'tis  well  that  thou  hast  but  one  feeling  of  pain — 
That  of  hunger  and  cold  ; — all  the  others  are  dead  I 


Then,  come  to  my  arms,  meanly  clad  as  thou  art, 
Till  the  anguish  that  wastes  thee,  for  once  is  beguiled  ; 
Lay  thy  head  on  my  breast,  with  thine  ear  to  my  heart. 
Till  it  locks  thee  to  sleep,  my  poor,  barefooted  child. 


IT 


54 


710 


TO 


Once  more  !  once  more  !  enchantress,  or  I  die. 
Break  not  the  spell  that  chains  my  ravished  ear, 
But  let  me  in  those  wondrous  transports  He, 
As  tremblingly  my  pulses  p'uise    to  hear 
That  soft  low  gush  that,  blending  with  thy  lyre, 
Calls  up  thy  spirit  to  that  dark  blue  eye 
That's  floating  in  a  wave  of  li(|uid  fire. 


Ill 


mi 


Fut  stay  ! — such  beauty   cannot  be  its  own 
Without  the  dazzling  wing  and  golden  hair  ; 
Then  tempt  not  heaven,  that  sees  thee  thus  alone, 
To  break  the  lovely  chrysalis  that's  there, 
And  fix  my  upv/ard-gazing  destiny, 
Till  all  my  being  settles  into  stone, 
And  leaves  me  but  a  monument  to  thee. 


TO . 

Then,  M-hcre  a  trace  of  thee  ?-The  sculptors  art, 
Or  pencil  dipt  in  fancy's  purest  sprin^rs, 
Or  dreaming  poets  wild  imaginings 
Wrought  to  the  full  intensity  of  blLs, 
Would  all,  with  their  vain  Icarian  wings, 
Fall  coldly  back  upon  my  widowed  heart.— 
No  language  for  that  blinding,  burning  kiss  ! 
No  touch  that  swelling  bosom  can  impart! 


55 


.ii»ri»i«.,1wnwi<f''-»>, 


56 


THE  APRIL  SHOWER. 


THE  APRIL  SHOWER. 

Come,  chase  me  ! — chase  me,  April  shower  I 
That  I    once  more  may  run  away  ; 
For,  oh!  'tis  many  a  weary  hour 
Since  you  and  I  were  last  at  play — 
Since  last  my  heart  lay  in  my  eyes, 
And  sunshine  lived  upon  my  face — 
Since  last  I  watched  the  April  skies, 
And  dipped  my  head  to  take  a  race. 


'Twas  evening — I  remember  well — 

An  eve  of  joy  and  balm  and  love. 

When  merry  hearts  met  in  a  dell — 

A  spot  scooped  out  within  a  grove — 

And  there,  while  on  a  primrose-raid, 

Not  sparing  the  unopened  bud, 

A  bright  one  clapped  her  hands  and  said, 

"An  April  shower  comes  through  the  wood  1 " 


THE  APRIL  SHOWER, 


57 


Though  ofttimes  we  had  met  at  school, 

I  had  not  seen  her  till  that  hour ! 

So  I  stood  playing  "April  fool," 

While  she  stood  crying,   "  April  shower  !  " 

Till  down,  at  last,  the  silvery  flood 

Came  glittering  in  the  setting  sun, 

And  caught  us  brightly  where  we  stood, 

Just  as  we  were  about  to  run. 


So  being  deserted  by  the  rest. 
Who  laughing  thought  to  beat  the  cloud, 
I  simply  drew  her  to  my  breast 
And  oer  her  head  in  shelter   bowed  ; 
But  soon  a  strange  affair  took  place, 
Beyond  all  explanation  s  power  ; 
When  she  upturned  her  shaded  face, 
'Twas  radiant  with  an  April  shower  I 


)^1 


H  J 


i 


'it 


!     ( 


58 


GOD  HELP  HER, 


GOD  HELP  HER. 

God  help  the  wretch  who  nig-htly  drag's 
Her  life  along'  the  ghastly  flags, 
In  sin,  in  hunger,  and  in  rags. 

God  help  her,  when  the  bitter  rain 
Beats  on  her — like  a  window  pane — 
And  almost  washes  out  her  stain. 

God  help  her,  when,  with  bleeding  feet, 
She  pauses  ere  she  stoops  to  meet 
The  cruel  corner  of  the  street. 

God  help  her,  whf;    with  tearless  eye, 
She  looks  into  the  blackened  sky, 
And  strikes  her  breast  and  asks  to  die. 


GOD  HELP  HER. 

God  help  her,  wandering  to  and  fro 
Without  one  pitying  look  to  throw 
A  gleam  upon  her  sullied  snow. 


%9 


Poor  child  of  good,  and  child  of  ill, 
The  slave  of  her  misguided  will, 
God  help  her  !— she's  a  woman  still. 


DO 


TO  THE  NEW  MOO A\ 


TO  THE  NEW  MOON. 


\ 


Ah,  moon  ! — ah,  cunning  moon,  thou  art  not  young  ; 

For,  upwards  of  three  thousand  years  ago. 

The  silent  music  of  thy  silvery  tongue 

Was  trembling  in  Arcadian  vales,  we  know. 


And  though  thou  seem'st  so  bright  and  youthful  still. 
Thou,  in  the  fostering  fullness  of  thy  charms, 
Didst  stretch  thy  white  limbs  on  the  Coelian  Hill, 
And  clasp  young  Tuscan  Roma  in  thine  arms. 


J 


And,  e'en  through  grim,  old  Thebes,  in  majesty 
Thou  didst  thy  midnight  glories  proudly  trail ; 
When  the  cold  Memnon  should  have  sung  to  thee 
And  kept  for  sunrise  his  funereal  wail. 


I 


Strange  !  that  the  dull  colossus  was  not  won 
By  the  soft  pressure  of  those  beamy  hands 
That  never  smote  him  as  oft  did  the  sun. 
When  bursting  from  its  sleep  of  burning  sands. 


I 


TO  THE  NEW  MOOX.  d 

But,  vvert  thou  not  in  Eden,  fresh  and  fair, 
When  Eve  first  slept  upon  its  dewy  sward  ? 
And  didst  thou  not  weave  diamonds  in  her  hair, 
And  revel  in  her  eyes,  as  thy  reward  ? 

Ah,  moon  ! — ah,  cunning-  moon,  thou  art  not  young, 
Though  clear,  in  these  bright  skies,  thy  tranquil  brow, 
Heaven's  censer  of  pure  light  thou  there  hast  hung 
From  age  to  age,  as  thou  art  hanging  now. 


Hi; 


62 


WINTER. 


WINTER. 

Whkn  Winter,  that  crusty  old  rogfue,  brushiuij  by, 

Plucks  our  woods  just  as  if  they  were  g^eese, 
Oft  I  notice  a  smile  in  his  merry,  gray  eye, 
As  he  sends  their  brown  tatters  adrift  through  the  sky 
To  play  shadows  among  its  white  fleece. 

Tis  because  that  his  lot  is  not  hard  after  all, 

For,  while  travelling-  onward,  he  knows. 
When  he  shakes  a  sweet  shrub  or  a  forest  tree  tall, 
That  the  seeds  of  wild  roses,  and  acorns  fall 
In  the  print  of  his  frosty  old  toes. 

And  this  hint  with  a  lesson  I'm  sure  should  be  rife 

To  those  wretched  old  croakers  of  ours. 
Whose  teeth  and  short  nails  are  forever  at  strife, 
And  who  never  can  see  that  the  blasts  throughout  life 
Always  scatter  the  seeds  of  some  flowers. 


THE  nUnHANDMAN. 


63 


THE  HUSBANDMAN. 

Hail  !  sunburnt  glory  of  the  plough — 
The  noblest  work  that  heaven  has  made — 
With  clustering  gems  upon  thy  brow, 
While  wielding  thus  that  sceptre-spade, 
That  swarthy  hand  in  mine  be  laid ; 
For  I  would  grasp  it  bravely  now, 
And  see  thee  stride  across  the  plain 
Scatt'ring  these  showers  of  amber  grain 
That  fall  like  gusts  of  golden  rain 
Along  the  mellow,  furrowed  sod 
That  lies,  the  open  Hand  of  (iod. 


Behold  the  heritage  that's  thine. 
With  fretted  dome  and  crystal  walls  ! 
Behold  the  palace  lamps  tliat  shine — 
Sun,  moon  and  stars — thnnighout  its  halls  ; 
Behold  its  fountain-waterfalls. 
Its  fleecy  flocks  and  gentle  kine  ; 
And  on  its  landscape-gardens  look. 
Where  nestles  many  a  shady  nook 
Beside  its  sweet-toned  silver  brook  ; 
And  wouldst  thou,  then — a  worthless  thing- 
Droop  in  the  hovel  of  a  King  ? 


64 


THE  ANGELS  OF  77/^  BLIND. 


THE  ANGELS  OF  THE  BLIND.* 


Though  on  the  dark,  drear  walls  of  the  lonely  bliml 
man's  skull 
A  picture  is  never  hung  by  the  glowing  hand  of  light, 
But  in  the  gloomy  catacomb  his  brain  beats  thick  and 
dull, 
Like  some  huge,   lazy  death-watch  slowly  wearing 
out  the  night ; 


And  though  along  the  pavement  of  that  cavern  never 

pours 

One  beam  of  all  the  beauty  or  the  life  that  'round  us 

teems, 

And  Nature,  as  in  wantonness,  has  shut  its  outer  doors, 

And  almost  made  a  desert  of  the  very  land  of  dreams  ; 

*  Voices,  alone,  are  the  visitants  of  the  dreams  of  those  born  Wind. 
Just  as  in  their  waking  state,  all  besides  is  dark  and  void. 


TJ//':  AXGF.LS  Of  TJfE  fi/./XD. 


65 


Yet,  there  are  viewless  an^^els  that  surround  him  ni^^ht 
and  (hiy,  ^ 

Who  sport  .hn.uKh.,u,  ,1„,,  sepulchre  as  if  i,  were  a 


Srove, 


A.ul  though  he  never  sees  them,  sHII  he   hears  their 
Wings  at  jiiay, 

An.l  kuows  they  are  the  voices  of  ,he  oueshe  leurneU 


to  love. 


f! 


66 


ONE  JIOPH. 


ONE  HOPE. 

Oil!  (I()(l,  the  fl(MKl<j^ates  of  tliis  heart  of  niinC; 
So  lon^  shut  down,  in  madness,  ajji^ainst  ThOe, 
Have  burst,  at  hist,  before  another  shrine, 
Heneath  a  dehige  of  itiohitry 
'i'hat  sweeps,  with  all  its  desolating  powers, 
The  few  full  chords  Thy  name  alone  inspires, 
As  ^^tna  sweeps  some  fated  spot,  where  fiow'rs 
Might  long  have  bloomed  but  for  its  headlong  fires. 

And,  yet,  before  no  i)agan  goUl  1  kneel, 

As  knelt  the  faithless  Israelites  of  old  ; 

I  have  not  felt,  nor  can  I  ever  feel 

One  pulse  for  aught  that's  passionless  or  cold  ; 

For  never  has  a  fibre  of  this  brain, 

Throbbed  to  tame  grief  or  pleasures  fancied  spell  ; 

But  strung  to  agonizing  bliss  or  pain. 

Owns  but  the  heaven  of  one,  or  th'  other's  hell. 


oxE  nopii. 


(>7 


TlKMWoach  mc  h,,vv  to  supplicate  T)n^Kn-:ar 
//;^^^  ^''-^--I'l^st  break  the   honcls  tlua  sL 
Id  weep,  but  then  ra  shed  tc,ol.n.ht  a  tear, 
Ihcres  so  much  rapture  .nin^Wed  with  my  sin  • 
Yet,  teach  me  not  .'-One  hope  has  not  vet  flown- 
1  he  hope  that  when  in  anger  ThouVt  arrayed 
rhou  wilt  remember  that  by  Thee,  alone 
The  breathing  idol  of  my  soul  was  made  ' 


68 


A  FA  THER  TO  HIS  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


I 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

How  like  thy  mother — every  circling  hour 
As  thus  I  gaze,  more  fully  I  can  trace 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  that  faded  flow'r 
In  thy  sweet  face. 

Dear  miniature  of  her  who's  sainted  now, 
Her  wonted  smile  seems  sweetly  lingering  there  : 
And  that  dark  tress  which  shades  thy  shining  brow, 
Is   her  own  hair. 

Oh,  If^t  this  fervent  kiss  thy  slumbers  mar, 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  her  speaking  eye, 
Which  seem'd  a  fragment  of  the  vesper  star 
And  deep  blue  sky. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on.  thou  lonely  lovely  thing  ; 
Owe  the  unruffled  calmness  of  thy  breast 
To  thy  own  angel  mother's  golden  wing 
That  guards  thy  rest. 


THE  STORM  FIEND. 


69 


THE  STORM   FIEND. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  " — said  a  sprite,  at  the  dead  of  the  night, 
As  he  rose  from  the  Danube's  chill  wave, 
"The  winds  moan  as  wild  as  a  desolate  child. 
And  the  world  is  as  drear  as  the  grave. 


"  Not  a  glimmering  ray  lights  the  traveller's  way 
As  he  gfopes  on  the  vergi.'  of  yon  steep, 
And  the  sailor's  stout  bark,  through  the  tempest  dark, 
Wildly  rolls  o'er  the  face  of  the  deep. 


i!li 


"See  that  monk  with  gray  hairs,  telling  o   jr  his  prayers, 
While  the  storm  swings  the  old  Convent  bell, 
He  is  seized  with  strange  fears,  as  he  fancies  he  hears 
A  low  knock  at  the  door  of  his  cell. 


"And  that  beautiful  girl,  all  rose,  jet  and  pearl, 
Who  starts  from  her  sluml)ers,  so  pale, 
How  she  quails  like  a  fawn  as  she  peeps  for  the  dawn 
Thro'  the  casement  that  flaps  in  the  gale. 


i      I 


70 


THE  STORM  /■//■XJ). 


"  Ihi  !  hi  !  "  said  thcsprite,  and  he  chuckled  outright, 
As  the  winds  swe[)t  more  rapidly  past.. 
"  "I'is  the  rarest  t)f  glee  for  a  rider  like  nie 
To  bestride  such  a  terrible  blast. 


I 


"  With  the  lightning's  red  veins  I'or  my  measureless  reins, 
And  a  cloud-saddle  fastened  beneath, 
My  chargers  sjiall  fly  through  earth,  ocean  and  sky, 
"Fill  I  win  nic  a  witherless  wreath.  ' 

Then  on  them  he  swung,  while  the  rocky  hills  rung, 
As  they  trampled  and  fumed  in  their  pride, 
And  the  thunder's  loud  thwack,  as  it  fell  on  their  back, 
Seemed  to  tell  forth  each  measureless  stride. 

.So  onward  they  dash'd,  they  so  rnadl}'  were  laslictl, 

With  the  speed  that  the  nu-ti'or  nioxes, 

While  his   demon-like  mirth   grew   more    lierce   as  the 

earth 
Staggered  under  their  hurricane  hoofs. 

But  morning  it  came  with  its  flushes  of  flame, 
And  the  tem]:)est  dejirived  of  its  powers, 
Sobbed  itself  into  calm  annd  sunshine  and  balm, 
And  at  last  iell  asleep  'mong  the  flowers. 


:   I 
I 


THE    STORM   F/F..VD.  71 

But  it  came  in  too  1;itc,  for  the  traveller's  fate 
Was  tlien  sealed  by  a  hand  cold  and  stiff  ; 
With  a  erv  lonsr  and  wild  for  his  wife  ami  his  child, 
He  was  swei)t  off  that  shuddering  cliff. 

And  the  mariner's  sail,  left  a  wreck  by  the  t;ale, 
Was  now  crashin;^  'mid  ocean's  dark  caves, 
W'liile  the  sailors  in  crowds  hani^-ins^  dead  in  the  shrouds, 
Furned  jj;-reen  in  the  lig-ht  of  the  waves. 

And  the  monastery  fell,  for  its  turret  and  bell 
Stood  aloft  in  the  whirlwind's  pass, 
And  the  quivering  trunk  of  the  j^ray-headed  monk 
Was  duyf  out  from  beneath  the  hus^e  mass. 


the 


But  the  saddest  of  all  was  the  g-entle  one's  fall 

Who  look'd  out  from  her  casement  ai^hast. 

The  warm  ilew  of  repose  that  hunj^  on  the  sweet  rose, 

It  was  chill'd  by  the  winds  as  they  passed. 


And  shedroop'd  from  that  hour,  the  poor  delicate  flow'r, 
Tho'  a  youth  pray'd  and  wc])t  by  her  side; 
But  his  tears  were  in  vrn'n,  thouj^h  they  fell  fast  as  rain, 
For  ere  long  on  his  bosom  she  died. 


72 


THE  STORM  FIEND. 


Then  so  wild  his  despair,  when  her  dark  glossy  hair 

Fell  in  clouds  on  her  bosom  of  snow, 

That  he  rush'd  from  the  crowd,  with  a  laugh  long  and 

loud, 
In  the  last  fearful  refuge  of  woe. 

And  now  on  yon  peak,  rugged,  dizzy  and  bleak, 
That  but  whispers  back  oceans  dull  roar, 
In  the  depths  of  despair  he  oft  battles  the  air, 
A  poor  maniac,  lost  evermore. 


1 


And  when  in  their  might  the  winds  traverse  the  night. 
And  the  face  of  the  sky  is  o'ercast. 
He  laughs  at  the  screams  of  the  seagull,  and  dreams 
That  he  stabs  the  curst  fiend  of  the  blast. 


OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 


11 


and 


o-ht 


OLIVER  WENDELL  IIOL.MF.S. 

Ill  this  lone  wilderness  of  rhyme, 
Surrounded  by  a  thirsty  flock,  ' 
lie  lifts  his  rod,  with  lumd  subl'ime. 

And  smites  the  rock, 

'Till  where  the  voiceless  desert  lay. 

Throughout  a  waste  of  cheerless'hours, 
A  living  fount  begins  to  play 

On  sudden  flowers. 

And  as  his  way  he  onward  wends 

With  all  the  Hebrew  s  matchless  po^^x•r 
He  looks  towards  Heaven,  and  lo  !  descends 

The  manna  shower. 

And  having  fed  the  famished  crowd, 
'Till  more  than  sated  each  desire' 
He  goes  before  a  pillared  cloud. 

Or  dis<:  (jf  Fire  I 


3 


74 


CREA  T/ON. 


CREATION. 

All  heaven  is  lost  in  silence  ! — and  the  cry 
Of  cherubim  anil  seraphim  is  hushetl, — 
Ans^el  and  rapt  archangel  prostrate  lie, 
Beneath  a  weight  of  sudden  glory  crushed  ; 
And  conquering  hosts,  in  burning  panoply, 
Are,  like  a  troubled  ocean,  backwards  pushed  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Throne  is  passing  by  ! 
And  veiled  so  thinly  is  his  radiant  face, 
That  the  resplendent  lightnings  of  his  eye 
Flash  out      'on  yon  cheerless  realms  of  space, 
Kindli.ig  tin  m  up  into  a  morning  sky 
That  clasp?,  infinity  in  its  embrace. 

Downwaru.T  he   sweeps  through  their  young  trembling 
His  footsteps  blazing  forth  in  orbs  of  light —        [dyes — 
While  the  huge  dust— that  from  his  sandals  flies, 
Tn  countless  worlds  begins  its  ceaseless  flight ; 
And  darkness,  mid  the  shining  conquest,  lies 
Trodden  beneath  the  power  of  his  might. 


f 


CREATIOiV. 

And,  now,  while  gating:  on  the  new  born  day, 

A  mighty  chorus  thunders  to  His  name 

Who  sent  the  red  spheres  on  tlieir  circling  way, 

And  dipt  the  rayless  void  in  living  flame  ; 

And  as  the  last  grand  "  Glory  "  lires  the  lay, 

''  The  morning  stars  "  take  up  the  ^vonderous  theme. 


75 


fi 


70 


MON  BIJOU 


. 


MON  BIJOU. 

My  heart's  own  brilliant,  set  in  living  pearls, 

Deep  in  that  cluster  of  sweet  little  girls 

Who,  playfully  forestalling  time  and  care. 

Twine  threads  of  silver  with  thy  raven  hair ; 

How  oft  am  I,  fond  jeweller,  afraid 

That  death  will  steal  upon  my  stock  in  trade. 

And  tear  the  ^   oiidrous  treasure  from  my  breast. 

Oh  !  should  one  sparkling  gem  be  snatched  away. 

What  shatter'd  light  around  that  group  would  play  ; 

How  sadden 'd  all  the  lustre  of  the  rest, 

And  how  could  I  unlearn  one  dear,  dear  name  ; 

Or,  through  a  weary  waste  of  sunless  years, 

Gaze  on  my  broken  bijou,  but  through  tears  ; 

As  vainly  I  would  make  it  look  the  same. 

And  ofttimes  close  my  poor,  dim  eyes  to  trace 

The  outlines  of  that  long-lost,  darling  face  ? 

But,  why  this  shadow  resting  on  my  brow, 

When  thou  art  near — when  thou  hast  to  me  giv'n 

Another  life  that  lies  almost  in  heav'n  ; 

When  all  my  jewels  glitter  round  thee  now, 

As  if  from  solid  sunshine  they  were  hewn 

At  sapphire  morn,  at  ruby  eve,  or  crystal  noon  ? 


FKAGMKXT. 


11 


FRA(;MKX'r. 

When,  in  his  strength,  the  monarch  of  the  air 
Soars  proudly  tlirough  the  azure  fields  of  heaven. 
His  pinions  burning-  in  the  noontide  glare, 
Or  flashing  in  the  deep-red  dyes  of  even, 
He  sees  the  earth  receding  from  his  eye. 
And  looking  round  him,  in  his  chainless  glee, 
Utters  a  loud,  a  long,  wild,  ringing  cry, 
And  that's  the  joyous  shout  of  liberty. 


But,  when  he  leaves  these  vast  ethereal  plains, 
And  falls  into  the  fowler's  hidden  snare, 
Beneath  the  icy  pressure  of  his  chains. 
How  soon  his  sounding  wing  hangs  listless  there  ;- 
And  oft,  as  o'er  their  galling  links  he  broods, 
Dreaming  of  the  bright  hours  when  he  was  free, 
He  looks  up  through  the  shining  solitudes, 
And  shrieks— the  bitter  shriek  of  slavery. 


II 


I 


78 


j''A\i<j.\f/-:.vr. 


i 


If  tluis  'tis  tn^m  thi'  oiiglc  to  the  clove, 

Say,  how  can  we  y\\un\  our  tetters  smile. 

Save  those  that,  woven  liy  tlie  hand  of  love, 

Are  'round  us  llunj^^  with  man)'  a  tender  wile  ? 

So  pure  a  shrine  of  freedom  is  tlie  soul, 

That  could  ourehains  lose  all  their  weight  and  chill, 

Aiid,  twined  with  li;^ht,  extend  from  pole  to  pole 

We'd  sigh — and  feel  that  we  were  captives  still. 


\ 


! 


TVKi:. 


1 


TYRE. 

On  the   spot    where   now  's  scattered   the   fisherman's 

home, 
Stood  the  rival  of  Carthage  the  rival  of  Rome  ; 
But,  how  vainly  we  seek  in  its  shade,  to  behold 
E'en  a  trace  of  the  <,n'eatness  that  marked  it  of  old  : 
Long  locked  in  the  merciless  grasp  of  decay, 
For  ages  its  ruins  have  monlder'd  away. 

'Tis  the  curse  of  Omnipcjtence  rests  on  thee.  Tyre  ! 
Klernally  plunged  in  the  gulf  of  liis  ire, 
•One  glimmering  of  hope    is  forbidden  tt)  ohuie 
Through  the  gloom  of  that  terrible  sentence  of  thine  ; 
The  flame  of  thy  glory  extinguished  at  last, 
Thou  shalt  moulder  forever,  a  wreck  of  the  |>ast  ! 

Say,  where  is  the  flash  of  the  Syrian  gem 

That  hung  upon  Tthobaal's  diadem. 

When,  in  purple  and  gold,  all  your  princes  bow'd, 

As  he  pass'd  with  a  shout  through  the  shining  crowd  ? 

'Tis  fled  with  the  gleam  of  the  treasures  untold, 

That  built  up  thy   temples  and  idols,  of  old. 


' 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14S80 

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8o 


TYKE. 


Or,  where  is  the  broidered  Egyptian  sail, 
That. unbosomed  its  beautiful  hues  to  the  gale, 
Till  thy  galleys  stretch'd  out  o'er  the  ocean  at  even, 
Seemed   the   fringe   of  the   golden    tinged  drapery    of 

heaven 
Or  the  shores  of  some  far  away  fairy  Isle 
That  glittered  and  glowed  in  the  sun's  last  smile  ? 

All  are  gone  !  and  the  voice  of  thy  mirth  is  no  more  ; 
The  Sidonians  song,  and  the  Bashan  oar, 
The  chariot,  the  horseman,  the  Grecian  slave, 
The  wealth  of  the  mine  and  the  Indian  wave. 
The  Grammadim's  strength,  the  Arvadian's  tread, 
Arc  things  that  have  long  passed  away  with  the  dead  ! 


The  God  who  shakes  heaven,  and  earth  beneath. 
When  his  shining  brand  flies  from  its  thunder  cloud 

sheath 

Who  rolls  up  in  slumbers  the  wings  of  the  storm. 
And  melts  into  moonlight  its  terrible  form, 
Has  trodden  thee  down  in  the  strength  of  his  ire, 
Oh  ! — desolate  ! — desolate  ! — desolate  Tyre  I 


LOST. 


8i 


id 


LOST. 

» 

Spattered  like  blood  on  the  face  of  the  angry  sky, 
A  red  flag,  blown  into  tatters,  half  mast  high, 

Signals  a  ship  far  off  in  the  deepening  gloi>m  ; 
Her  strong  ribs  wrung  like  withes  in  ♦he  tempest's  gripe 
That  thunders  a  death-song  down  through  her  rocking 
pipe, 

And  ploughs  into  smoke  the  pathway  of  her  doom. 

The  battle-door  of  the  waters  swoops  to  the  shock, 
And  strikes  her  as  if  she  were  but  a  shuttlecock, 

Knocking  her  almost  keel  up  into  the  air, 
Where,  trailing  with  shattered  yards  and  tangled  shrouds, 
She  looms  like  a  spectre  sail  among  the  clouds, 

Till  tumbled  back  with  her  quivering  planks  swept 
bare. 


! 


8a 


LOST. 


Hung  with  dark  cataracts  that  pour  from  every  spar 
And  deluge  her  lofty,  livid  beacon  star, 

Still  through  the  awful  tumult  she  keeps  afloat, 
And  onward  rolls    while  the  cold,  black  ghastly  tide 
Leaps  through  huge  arteries  ruptured  in  her  siile, 

And  washes  the  dull  death-rattle  into  her  throat. 

But  thundering     now    amid  sunken  reefs  and  MTCcks, 
A  pale-faced  host  surges  o'er  her  yawning  decks, 

Staring  the  gloom  into  strange,  blind,  deadly  light; 
Till  one  long  murderous  crash  and  unearthly  yell 
In  dying  echoes  boom  through  the  watery  hell, 

And  leave  the  great,  round  sea  alone  with  the  night 


THE  DREAMER. 


h 


TIIK  DRKAMKR. 

» 

I'vK  a  world  of  my  own  !  I've  a  world  of  my  own, 
That  is  brighter  by  far,  and  more  happy  than  this  : 

A  creation  so  pure  that  the  spirit  alone 

Is  permitted  to  taste  of  its  fountains  of  bliss  ; 

Where    the    mystical  drops,  though  they  glance  but   in 
dreams, 
May  be  quaffd  with  an  exquisite  thrill  to  the  last, 

For  the  depths  where  they  sparkle  are  fed  by  those  streams 

That  still  sprinkle  with  verdure  the  waste  of  the  past. 


I've  a  world  of  my  own  !  I've  a  world  of  my  own, 

With  its  morning — of  blushes  that  waken  no  more  ; 
With  its  noontide — of  smiles  that  once  brilliantly  shone  ; 

And  its  starlight — of  eyes  whose  last  beann'ngs  are  o'er. 
And  thither  from  earth  I  oft  wing  my  lone  flight, 

To  revisit  the  scenes  that  to  nie  were  so  dear, 
And  to  listen  again  to  that  phantom  of  light 

That  was  once  all  theit  heaven  could  grant  to  me  here. 


94 


THE  DKEAMER. 


I've  a  world  of  my  own  !  I've  a  world  of  my  own  ; 

A  bright  spot  in  this  desert-like  bosom  of  mine  ; 
Where  I  meet  with  the  spirit  of  joys  that  are  flown, 

In  an  oasis  blooming  'round  memory's  shrine. 
With  the  shadows  I  cherish,  there,  there  let  me  dwell — 

Would  the  hand  not  be  cold  thai  could  tear  us  apart? 
Gaze  in  silence  and  sadness,  but  break  not  the  spell — 

Wake  me  not ! — wake  me  not,  from — that  dream  of 
my  heart 


1 


GRA XD  O I'E/i TURK. 


85 


GRAND    OVERTURE. 
[an  extravaganza.] 

At  the  first,  red  sweep  of  the  Lightning's  baton. 
/I'he  drums  of  the  Thunder  all  rolled  out, 
Till  the  rocks  that  the  Earth  s  pale  audience  sat  on, 
In  the  startled  gloom,  seemed  t«)  dance  about. 


When,  the  treble  Winds,  set  in  mighty  motion, 
Hurried  down,  amain,  with  a  deafening  roar, 
While  the  ponderous  double-bass  of  the  Ocean 
Boomed  sublimely  on  through  the  awful  score. 

And  the  alto  Hills  rang  aloud,  to  falling, 

:\s  the  swift  bolt  sang  to  their  inmost  cores  ; 

\nd  the  shout  of  the  tenor  Woods  w.is  appalling, 

\s  they  swung  and  leaped  on  the  shuddering  shores. 


86 


GRAXD  OVERTURE. 


And  the  grand  accord  filled  all  climes  and  places, 
Until  Nature's  ribs  shook  with  vast  applause, 
And  a  host  of  cities  fell  on  their  faces 
In  the  "bravo  !  "  rift  of  the  Karthcjuake's  jaws. 


Till,  at  last,  from  a  close  of  dread  "  pianos," 
The  finale  burst  with  a  crash  of  rage, 
And  the  skies  gave  way  o'er  the  red  volcanoes 
That  flamed  out  in  footlights  along  the  stage. 


MORN. 


87 


MORN. 

With  sunbeams  her  rosy-tipped  buskins  she  ties, 
As  downward  she  steps  on  the  purple-brow'd  hiHs  ; 

While  a  flood  of  stained  glory  breaks  forth  from  her  eyes, 
And  runs  down  to  the  valleys,  like  long,  shining  rills. 

0"er  the  green  and  gold  seas  of  the  landscape  below, 
See  the  lark  hangs  aloft,  like  a  musical  star — 

So  begemmed  are  his  plumes  in  the  amaranth  glow, 
That  now  gathers  apace  round  the  wheels  of  her  car. 


And  all  nature  awakens  thro'  earth  and  through  air. 
In  the  sweet-scented  breeze  that's  beginning  to  rove  ; 

While  the  fawn,  rising  up,  all  bedewed,  from  her  lair, 
Like  a  mass  of  brown  silver  leaps  off  through  the 
grove. 


88 


rith  aPELL. 


.  THE  SPKLL. 

Lone,  dark  and  spectral  thou  art  standing  there- 
A  pile  of  tombstones  in  the  babbling  street, 
Whose  shadows,  tangled  round  niy  leaden  feet. 
Are  the  sure,  early  grave-clothes  that  I  wear. 


In  vain  I  seek  to  pass  in  the  disguise 
Of  hurried  footsteps  and  averted  brain  ; 
Thy  spell  is  on  me,  and  I  must  remain 
To  look  into  that  window's  guilty  eyes  : — 


To  look  into  the  chamber  where  he  lay, 
And  hear,  once  more,  with  heavy  dropping  head, 
The  agonizing  cry,  "he's  dead  !  he's  dead  !  " 
And  be  too  strong,  again,  to  fahit  away  : 


THE  SPELL.  g 

And  linger,  in  my  stupid  misery, 

To  catch  the  dull,  low  shuffling  on  the  stairs 

When  they  are  coming  down  in  silent  pairs 

With  what  would  seem  Gods  broken  word  to  me. 

When  they  are  bearing  to  the  hungry  tomi, 
The  last,  dead  sunbeam  of  my  darkened  years 
That  leaves  me,  e'en  without  the  light  of  tear*' 
To  stagger  out  my  life  in  deepening  gloom. 


yo 


'J'£A\VyMKV. 


TKXNVSOX  ! 


Lord  of  the  thuiuler-toned,  colossal  lyro 

Whoso  huj^o,  harinoiiious  cables  swin^,  suhliiiie, 

O'er  the  fouiulations  ol'tiiy  inoiuinient 

Those  ponderous  masses  of  immortal  rhyme — 

\'ast    glowing  blocks  of  jidamantine  tire, 

'I'hat  bid  detiance  to  all  change  and  time, 

From  proud  Parnassus  by  the  lightning  rent, 

Until,  at  last,  its  total  bulk  shall  lie 

Ik'neath  thy  feet,  ami  thou  shalt  upwards  climb 

Into  the  great,  broad,  startled  lirmament. 

There  thou  shalt  blaze,  half  hid  from  mort'd  eye, 

Above  the  glorious  sea  of  the  last  cloud, 

Where  never  shadow  quarrelled  with  the  sun. 

Or  tempest  raged,  unbftted,  to  and  fro. 

There,  thou  shalt  mark  the  pilgrim  iiations  come 

To  chant  thy  deep-toned  symphonies  below. 

And,  when  the  booming  chorusses  are  done, 

Behold  them  wave  ten  thousand  hands  on  high. 

Towards  thy  fierce-flaming  head  that  cleaves  the  sky. 

And  shout,  "Hail  Tennyson  ! — immortal  Tennyson  I  ' 


\ 


THE  PRiaONEK. 


^\ 


TIIK  PRISOXKK. 


t 


Down  by  tlie  waters  of  the  Don*  to-niy;ht. 
A  poor  yoiinj^  prisoner  ^azcs  on  tlie  stars 
Throutjh  a  deep  looi)-hole  curst  with  iron  bars 
Whose  rulVian  shadows  in  tlieir  rudeness  smite 
The  feeble  ray  that  trembles  on  his  clieek, 
As,  with  a  heart  too  sad  and  full  to  speak, 
He  weeps  the  loss  of  innocence  and  light 


Jk'side  him  in  his  close,  dark,  dreary  cell. 
In  restless  sleep  a  hoary  villain  lies, 
Foul  visions  sporting  with  his  glassy  eyes 
'I'hat  seem  the  portals  of  his  inner  hell 
Flashing  and  failing  in  its  fitful  fires. 
With  horrible  resolve  that  never  tires 
Till  morning  comes  to  break  the  fearful  si)ell. 
♦A  sluggish  river  on  which  the  jail  at  Toronto,  Canada,  is  Imilt. 


i 


92 


THE  PHIiiONER. 

All  the  day  long  in  that  pale  watcher's  ears, 
The  ribald  song,  and  jest's  unholy  din 
Drowned  the  low  whisperings  of  his  soul  within  ; 
But  now,  in  silence  and  in  bitter  tears, 
He  mourns  the  crime  that  he  must  expiate 
In  the  dark  dungeons  of  a  Christian  State, 
By  learning  how  to  sin  away  his  y^ars. 


The  noxious  vapors,  from  the  sedgy  lake, 

That  ooze  through  that  dim  opening,  damp  and  chill, 

Check  the  warm  current  of  his  heart's  red  rill  ; 

And  now,  till  all  his  miseries  awake. 

There  crowd    in  memory  on  his  sickening  brain. 

The  breeze,  the  sunshine,  and  the  blessed  rain 

That  lit  up  the  pale  wild  flower  in  the  brake. 


He  watches  ; — for  ere  morn  the  moon  sliall  trace 

Her  path  across  his  narrow  strip  of  sky  ; 

And  he  would  gaze  upon  her  passing  by, 

To  see  if  any  love  shone  in  her  face : 

For  all  the  world  had  left  him  in  distrust, 

And  he  was  trodden  down  into  the  dust, 

A  wretched,  helpless  outcast  of  his  race. 


THE  PRISOXER. 

For  like  the  Spartan  moralists  of  old, 

The  g^reat  adroit,  who  featly  play  their  part, 

Hate  him  for  being  a  sloven  in  their  art  ; 

While  had  he  been  more  practiced  or  niore  boUl, 

He  might  hav^e  clad  his  crimes  in  purple  dyes, 

And  dazzled  out  a  sordid  nation's  eyes 

With  the  broad  splendor  of  his  cursed  gold. 

But  now,  while  gasping  for  more  room  and  air. 

A  glory,  frightened  from  his  dungeon  walls, 

Upon  his  pallid  brow  serenely  falls  : 

It  is  the  moon  ! — But  no  !   How  strange  and  fair  ! 

It  is  his  sainted  mother's  gentle  eyes 

That  bend,  till  dawn,  upon  him  from  the  skies, 

And  turn  him  into  dreaming  marble  there. 


93 


94 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD. 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD. 

Purple,  golden,  burning  mote, 
As  among  the  flowers  you  float. 
Not  a  single,  silvery  note 

Falls  on  my  ear. 
Come,  starlet  tune  your  dazzling  throat ; 

I  pause  to  hear. 

How,  hung  amid  a  thousand  dyes, 
A  prism,  you  glitter  in  my  eyes. 
To  every  bud  that  round  you  lies 

In  emerald  set  ; 
A  rainbow  that  the  summer  skies 

Ne'er  equalled  yet 

But,  hist !  You  are  not  silent,  bird  ; 

The  air  with  melody  is  stirred. 

As  soft  as  some  low,  whispered  word 

Through  breathing  strings ; 
The  song  denied  your  throat  is  heard 

Among  your  wings. 


7  HE  HUMMIXG  BIRJ\ 

And  had  it  thrilled  with  more  delight, 
You  are  so  beautiful  and  bright, 
In  gazing,  all  its  sweetness  might 

Forgotten  be  ; 
Its  murmuring  shadow  then  is  quite 

Enough  for  me. 


55 


.Jjat 


r  -*-ftM<..-"%.^»fil«lfc<«'«L.k..»-  .t^i-ti.,:^ 


96 


BEAKLA  FEJXE. 


BKARLA  PEINE.* 


Fountained  behind  that  dark  mysterious  veil 
That  long  has  mocked  the  gaze  of  prying  sages, 
Oh  !  great  word-river  of  the  mighty  Gael, 
Sublimely  rolling  down  the  steep  of  ages — 
Ancient  of  tongues,  that  first  began  to  flow. 
Ah,    who  shall  dare  to  say,  how  long  ago  ? 

Nor  stately  Latin,  nor  imperial  Greek, 
E'en  'though  intoned  by  Virgil  and  by  Homer, 
In  love  or  war  or  peace  like  thee  can  speak — 
Thou  gentle,  restless,  headlong,  world-wide  roamer, 
The  priceless  treasures  of  whose  matchless  lore 
Like  golden  sands  strew  almost  every  shore. 

When  surging  through  the  patriot's  glowing  soul, 
Tearing  the  floodgates  of  his  lips  asunder 
With  power  that  neither  knows  nor  brooks  control, 
Who'd  think  the  stormy  flood  that  leaps  in  thunder, 
Erewhile  had  whispered  o'er  the  rose  and  pearl 
That  tint  the  sweet  mouth  of  the  Kerry  girl  ? 

*  Ancient  Fenian  Celtic. 


97 


I 


BEAKI.A  FEIXE. 

When,  standing  in  the  empty  womb  of  space, 
The  Great  I  Am  the  silence  first  had  broken, 
When  light  and  darkness  first  met  face  to  face, 
What  then  the  sovereign  language  that  was  spoken, 
The  words  that  ushered  in  the  primal  dawn? 
Was  the  sublime  command — "  Biols  lus  awn?  " 

What  though  ungrateful  Saxon  knaves  and  fools 
Combine  to  rob  thee  of  thy  ancient  glory. 
And  trace  to  other  founts  and  later  schools 
The  riches  of  their  language,  song  and  story, 
Their  "  Furthoc  "  was  not  yet,  nor  was  their  name. 
When  thou  had'st  had  a  thousand  years  of  fame. 

But  vain  the  regicidal  war  has  been  ; 

Thou  hast  baptized  their  valleys,  hills  and  mountains  : 

The  royal  impress  of  thy  Beith  Lus  Nuin 

Is  found  among  their  rocks  and  streams  and  fountains. 

Thou  art  alone  the  key  that  opes  the  tloor 

That  guards  the  dungeons  of  their  early  lore. 

The  test  and  touchstone,  thou,  of  those  weak  tongues 
That  'round  their  birth  build  such  imposing  fables, 
Though  Ihey  had  not  the  strength  of  brain  or  lungs 
To  read  aloud  the  famed  Ku<rubine  Tables 
That  baffled  all  their  empty-hcadcil  pride 
Till  thou  did'st  lave  them  in  thy  kindred  tide. 


98 


LINES. 


LINES. 

Mow  oft,  while  wandering  through  some  desert  place, 
Ive  met  a  poor,  pale,  thirsty  little  flower 
Looking  towards  heaven,  with  its  patient  face, 
In  dying  expectation  of  a  shower. 


And  when  the  sweet  compassion  of  the  skies 

Fell  like  a  charm  upon  its  sickly  bloom, 

O,  what  a  grateful  stream  gushed  from  its  eyes 

Towards  Him  who  cared  to  snr.tch  it  from  the  tomb. 


And  O,  when  all  its  leaves  seemed  folding  up 
Into  the  tender  bud  of  other  davs, 
What  clouds  of  incense,  from  the  deep'ning  cup, 
Rolled  upwards  with  the  burden  of  its  praise. 


*[ 


L/XES. 


99 


And  then  I  thought,  in  this  fair  land  of  ours 
How  few  who  feel  afflictions  chastening  rod, 
Are  like  the  poor,  pale,  thirsty  little  flowers, 
With  their  meek  faces  turned  towards  their  God- 
How  few,  when  angry  clouds  and  storms  depart. 
And  all  the  light  of  heaven  reappears, 
Are  found  with  incense  rising  in  a  heart 
Dissolved  before  His  Throne  in  grateful  tears. 


!;'.'*^T,(t.'*" 


lOO 


AHt    YES—AH^   YES: 


AH  !  YES— AH,  YES  ! 

Ah  !  yes — for  I  remember  well, 
"Fwas  in  the  summer- twilight  hour 
Within  a  sweet  secluded  dell. 
Where  scarce  the  sunbeams  ever  fell. 
Although  the  cowslips  felt  their  power; 
And  every  time  there  came  a  shower. 
Perfumed  it  with  a  fragrant  smell, 
And  shook  out  all  their  loveliness, 
'Twas  long  ago — Ah  !  yes — Ah,  yes  I 


Twas  close  beside  a  silvery  brook 
That  sang  its  journey  through  tlie  vale, 
Where  willows  in  a  golden  stook, 
Enclosed  her  in  a  lovely  nook  ; 
The  while  the  amorous  scented  gale 
Crept  softly  through  their  trembling  pale, 
And  toyed  with  each  dark  shining  tress, 
'Twas  there  we  met — Ah  !  yes — Ah,  yes ! 


a 


All!    YES—AJl,  YES! 


101 


\ 


A  chaplct  of  wild  buds  and  leaves 
Were  twined  about  her  graceful  head, 
Such  as  some  midnight  fairy  weaves, 
Or  from  her  tiny  queen  receives 
To  lay  on  some  sweet  dreamer's  bed, 
That  she,  "while  her  fair  bosom  heaves, 
May  t\vine  it  with  a  raven  tress, 
Twas  thus  she  sat — Ah  1  yes — Ah,  yes  ! 

Her  eyes  from  out  the  water  came. 
Soon  as  my  footsteps  stirred  the  grass. 
Two  wondrous  orbs  of  mellow  flame. 
With  hidden  depths  that  nonc  may  name. 
And  power  that  would  not  let  me  pass. 
And  I  remained,  alas  !  alas  ! 
And  trembling  there  stood  to  confess 
Mow  lost  I  w^as — Ah!  yes — Ah, yes! 

The  words  we  spoke  I  cannot  tell ; 
Rut  they  were  hurried,  warm  and  wild, 
And  as  from  both  our  lips  they  fell. 
They  round  us  wrought  a  deeper  spell. 
And  all  our  being  so  beguiled 
That  e'en  the  very  passing  child 
The  frenzy  of  our  love  could  guess, 
And  frenzy  'twas — Ah !  yes — Ah,  yes  ! 


' 


I02 


AH  I    YEH-  A  J/,  YES  I 


The  dream  has  long  since  passed  away  ; 
And  I  am  still  beside  that  stream  ; 
Jkit  oil  !  how  altered,  old  and  gray, 
And  oil  !  how  dim  the  waters  play, 
liecausc,  because  of  that  lost  beam, 
Tluit  touched  them  with  a  sunny  gleam 
When  she  had  in  her  loveliness 
Breathed  in  my  car — Ah  !  yes — Ah  1  yes. 


1 


THE  STOkM, 


>03 


TiiK  sroKisr. 

Dark  billows  heave  against  the  angry  west, 
Where  tlying  daylight  struggles  in  his  blood, 
With  one  dim  sun-shaft  quivering  in  his  breast, 
That  pilis  him  down  upon  the  gloomy  flood. 

The  sullen  winds  their  mighty  wings  unfurl, 
And  hastening  clouds  a  hurried  j)halanx  form. 
Till  sudden  darkness  seems  at  last  to  hurl 
The  globe  from  out  the  pathway  of  the  storm. 


\ 


Down  !  down  it  comes  ! — as  when  the  angels  fcll- 
]}1  acker  and  swifter  still  in  all  its  ire, 
Striking  the  ocean  into  such  a  hell 
As  beggars  the  red  majesty  of  tire. 

All  nature  seems  to  miss  her  rocky  feet ; 
Pale  cities,  fleets  and  tottering  hills  give  way  ; 
And  palsied  man  creeps  from  his  dark  retreat, 
To  see  if  all  is  o'er,  or  it  be  day. 


w 


104 


rJ/£  BELLE. 


THE  RKLLK. 

(),    my  beautiful    child  with  that  exquisite  waist 
'i'hat"s  as  small  as  a  wasp's,  it's  90  charmingly  laced, 

How  delightful  you're  looking  to-day  : 
For  your  brow  is  as  white  as  the  lily  that  blows, 
And  your  delicate  cheeks  are  just  touched  with  the  rose, 
And  your  lips, — Don't  be  coughing,  I  pray. 

And  your  eyes  are  so  large  and  so  wond'rously  bright, 
That  they  seem,  at  this  moment,  strar.ge  fountains  of 
light 
Witli  their  depths  so  exhaustless  and  clear ; 
And  your  hands  are  so  tiny,  transparent  and  fair. 
That  the  suns  shining  through  them,  just  now,  I  de- 
clare. 
And  your  breast, — Don't  be  coughing  my  dear. 

Oh,   to-night  how  enchanting  you'll  look  at  the  ball. 
For  such  beauty  as  yours  must  outrival  them  all, 

But  I  see  that  you're  drowsy,  poor  dove, 
Ah,  you  slumber  my  darling,  such  slumber  is  balm, 
For  I've  never  before  seen  your  bosom  so  calm,      « 
And  I'm  glad  you're  not  coughing,  my  love. 


♦  7 


TJH  ALL  BUT  A  DREAM  A  T  THE  BEHT. 


105 


'TIS  ALL  BUT  A  DREAM  AT  THE  KEPT. 

It  is  all  but  a  dream  at  the  best,  so  they  say, 
But  what  recks  it  as  long  as  the  dreamers  arc  gay, 
And  believe  that  they  snatch  an  occasional  kiss 
From  the  lips  of  the  beautiful  phantom  of  bliss? 
The  soul  owes  some  thrills  of  its  purest  deligiit 
To  the  mystical  spells  of  the  visions  of  night, 
For  it  never  quaffs  deep  of  the  Lethean  stream, 
'Till  it  clasps  all  it  ever  can  love  in  a  dream. 


\ 


When  the  spirits  of  those  who  enchant  us  by  day, 
From  the  scenes  of  their  exile,  at  eve  vSteal  away 
And,  unsullied  by  earth,  their  bright  revelries  keep 
In  the  home  of  the  heart — the  Elysium  of  sleep, 
'Tis  kind  heaven  that  lengthens  and  lightens  their  chain, 
"Till  they  visit  those  magical  regions  again, 
That  were  lost,  with   the  depths  of  their  treasures   un- 
told, 
By  the  beautiful  rebel  who  trod  them  of  old. 


106        'T/S  ALL  HUT  A  DREAM  AT  THE  BEST. 

But  say,  were  they  dreams  that  so  widely  o'ercast 
The  dark  cycles  entombed  in  the  gulf  of  the  past  ? 
Were  the  shackles  then  fastened  on  millions  unborn 
Like  shadows  that  melt  in  the  beams  of  the  n.orn  ? 
And  now,  can  the  tear  that  dims  misery's  eye, 
Can  the  beggar  boy's  prayer,  and  the  dungeons  deep 

sigh, 
Can  the  wrongs  of  a  nation,  the  shrieks  of  a  slave 
Be  mere  traces  in  sand  <jn  the  verge  of  a  wave  ? 


But  should  science  now  yoke  to  her  glittering  car 
All  the  demons  of  discord,  the  terrors  of  war, 
And  with  laurels  besmeared  with  the  blood  of  mankind, 
Mount  the  angel  of  death  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
Till  the  cities  of  earth  fall  a  prey  to  the  tlame 
That  before  had  encircled  with  glory  their  name  ; 
Oh  !  how  dreadful  her  triumph  ! — how  gory  its  beam  ! 
If  a  dream,  would  not  this  be  a  terrible  dream? 


1 


1 


THE  REQUIEM. 


107 


v» 


THE  REQUIKM. 

Yawning  a  sudden  gulf  of  stormy  g-loom, 
Day,  dying,  dropt  his  under  jaw  in  night 
And  heeidlong  fell  into  an  ebcn  tomb 
That  quenched  his  broken  diadem  of  light. 

Yet  through  the  matted  darkness  of  his  shroud, 
His  blood-shot  eye  a  moment  wildly  stared 
Like  some  fierce  loophole  in  a  thunder  cloud 
Through  which  the  red  pelt  of  the  lightning  glared. 

Then  rose  the  huge,  dark  ocean  in  its  pride, 
Till,  towering  o'er  its  rocky  bolts  and  bars, 
It  shook,  in  great,  white  smoke,  its  watery  hide, 
And  toss'd  its  mane  among  the  blackeneil  stars. 


1 


While  the  dread  winds  gnawed  off  the  mountain  i)eaks, 

And  spat  them  down  the  steep,  in  deadly  rain, 

To  play  a  thousand  murderous,  midnight  freaks 

Among  the  trembling  cities  of  the  plain. 

6 


io8 


THE  KEQUJEM. 


And  the  flushed  lightnfng,  stung  with  sudden  ire, 
Sprang  like  a  burning  tiger  from  its  lair. 
And  seized  the  lone  earth  in  its  fangs  of  fire, 
And  shook  it  like  a  roebuck  in  the  air. 

As    close  upon  its  lurid  heels  there  fell 
The  round,  deep  thunder,  with  appalling  power, 
That  swung  the  low  arched  heavens  like  a  bell, 
•And  tolled  through  the  abyss  the  funeral  hour. 


\ 
1 


MIRAGE. 


109 


MIRAGE. 

When  early  passion's  deadly,  flamingo  sword 

Drives  manhood  from  the  paradise  of  youth, 
How  altered  all  that  once  was  so  adored  ; 

How  robbed  of  all  its  innocence  and  truth. 
The  pathway  leading,  from  our  first  bright  hours 
To  where  the  future's  last  false  mirage  gleams, 
Is  strewn,  at  best,  with  but  a  few,  pale  flowers 
Whose  fragrant  breathings  are  but  fitful  dreams. 


The  blue-bell,  nodding  in  the  incensed  dell, 

That  once  but  simply  told  of  heaven's  own  hue 
The  opening  rosebud,  with  its  crimson  spell. 

That  seemed  a  mimic  morning  wet  with  dew, 
No  longer  now  retain  their  wonted  dies, 

Or  point  to  heaven  or  dawns  first  tinted  streak, 
One,  trembles  with  the  light  of  woman's  eyes — 
The  other,  with  the  beauties  of  her  cheek. 
Alas  !  when  once  the  fetters  of  the  boy — 

Those  blooming,  rosy  bonds — are  torn  apart. 
Our  bliss  is  changed  into  that  fevered  joy 

Whose  burning  pulses  soon  wear  out  the  heart. 


no 


MIRAGE. 


And,  thus  we  wander,  lingering,  hoping  yet, 

Until,  at  last,  in  darkness  and  in  tears, 
We  tind  the  star   we  sought  so  long,  had  set 
Amid  the  brightness  of  our  early  years. 


; 


7/AV  /•VA'Sr  A'/SS. 


1  II 


THE  FIRST  KISS. 

In  the  first  kiss  she  gives  away 

She  loses  her  own  self  in  part. 
And  is  another's  from  that  day, 

Though  e'en  a  change  come  o'er  her  heart. 


Through  weal  or  woe,  through  sun  or  shade, 

The  sport  of  agony  or  bliss, 
There  siands  the  compact  she  has  made, 

For  she  can  ne'er  recall  that  kiss. 


' 


112 


VA IVA'. 


DAWN. 


With  folded  wings  of  ausky  light 
Upon  the  purple  hills  she  stands. 

An  angel  between  day  and  night, 
With  tinted  shadows  in  her  hands — 

Till  suddenly  transfigured  there. 

With  all  her  dazzling  plumes  unfurl'd, 
She  climbs  the  crimson-flooded  air, 

And  flies  in  glory  o'er  the  world  1 


I 


•ii 


UNES 


113 


J 


I    I 


LINES. 


INSCRIBED  TO 


-: 


HIS  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES. 


ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  HIS  VISIT  TO  CANADA. 


Not  in  the  fierce,  red  glory  of  the  battle  field, 
With  angry  laurels,  dripping  like  the  "crown  of  thorns," 
And  smoking  sinews  knotted  and  twisted  and  wheeled 
'Round  every  limb  whose  iron  brawn  both  shield  and 

buckler  scorns. 
Not  thus  descendest  thou  upon  this  peaceful  shore, 
Sung  in  by  shot  and  shell,  'mid  serried  host  on  host 
Whose   murd'rous   pulses   surge   and   deadly  thunders 

roar 
Like  dark  November  waves  that  rage  along  thy  native 
.   coast 


114 


LINES. 


Not   thus ; — for,    with  o'crflowing^  hearts,   we   proudly 

feel, 
In  thee  Britannia  clasps  us  cfoser  to  her  breast, 
Treading  the  waters,  with  pure  apostolic  zeal, 
To  shed  her  deeper  radiance  o'er  the  distant  teeming 

West, 
That  swift  shall  chase  the  desert  like  an  April  cloud, 
And  leave  broad,  golden  valleys  glowing  in  its  stead  ; 
Making  its  ancient,  hoary  silence  ring  aloud, 
While   quick'ning  into    life   all  that  is  cold,   asleep    or 

dead. 


'Though  thou  dost  come  in  youth,  there's  still  around 

thee  shed 
The  broadest,  brightest  ray  that  glory  ever  cast. 
Caught  from  thy  Royal  Mother's  matchless  heart  and 

head 
That  blaze  with  all   the  splendors  of  the  Present  and 

the  Past. 
And  this  huge,  shining  link  sublimely  forged  in  thee, 
And  stretched  in  all  Her  love  from  kindred  shore  to 

shore. 
Shall  shrivel  to  a  span  the  blue  gulf  of  the  sea, 
Till  but  one  pulse  throbs  with  our  common  life  forever- 
more. 


4 


LINES. 


I  I 


No  Crecy  here  for  thee  need  flash  in  bold  relief, 
The  early  pathway  of  thy  greatness  to  illume  ; 
For  thou  can'st  gather  up  a  heavy  golden  sheaf 
More  precious  far  than  was  the  blind  Bohemian's  fallen 

plume. 
And  thou  shalt  feel  how  strong — how  wondrous  strong 

thou  art 
Ev*n  in  these  out-works  far  beyond  thy  coming  seas, 
And  that  thou  hast  a  citadel  in  every  loyal  heart, 
Where  thou  can'st  rest  amid  a  thousand  bloodless  vic- 
tories. 

For  here  are  no  strange  people,  swarthy,  grim  or  wild. 
To  pour  their  feeble  homage  at  thy  gospel  feet  ; 
But  the  sturdy  Saxon  and  the  liery  Celtic  child 
Hast'ning  with  cherished  household  words  thine  eager 

ear  to  greet. 
And  through  our  sunlit  spaces  and  Cathedral  w(jods 
With  mighty  pillared  aisles  bannered  with  living  green — 
While  shake  our  cities  and  our  far-off  solitudes — 
Shall   thundering  roll  a  long  God  save  thee,  in 
"  God  save  the  Queen." 


I    \ 


I  M) 


♦'  THE  JKIHH  wolf: 


"THE  IRISH  WOLF." 

Sonic   years  ago,   the  London    Times  used  the  ubove  epithet   in 
designation  of  the  Irish  upon  their  native  soil: — 

Seek  music  in  the  wolfs  fierce  howl 

Or  pity  in  his  blood-  shot  eye, 
When  hunger  drives  him  out  to  prowl 
Beneath  a  rayless  northern  sky ; 

But  seek  not  that  we  should  forgive 
The  hand  that  strikes  us  to  the  heart, 

And  yet  in  mockery  bids  us  live 
To  count  our  stars  as  they  depart. 


We've  fed  the  tyrant  with  our  blood  ; 

Won  all  his  battles — built  his  throne- 
Established  him  on  land  and  flood. 

And  sought  his  glory  next  our  own. 


■!  > 


i- 


in 


'\THE  IRISH  wolf:' 

We  raised  him  from  his  low  estate  ; 

We  pkicked  his  pagan  soul  from  hell, 
And  led  him  pure  to  heaven's  gate, 

Till  he,  for  gold,  like  Judas,  fell. 

And  when  in  one,  long,  Soulless  night, 
He  lay  unknown  to  wealth  or  fhme. 

We  gave  him  empire— riches— light, 
And  taught  him  how  to  spell  his  name. 

But  now  ungenerous  and  unjust. 

Forgetful  of  our  old  renown, 
He  bows  us  to  the  very  dust  ; 

But  wears  our  jewels  in  his  crown. 


iiy 


W 


nit 


WHENE'EK  J  COME, 


, 


WHENE'ER  I  COME. 

As  when  Aurora,  glowing'  with  the  south, 

Strikes  through  the  darkh'iig  grove  in  h"ght  and  bloom, 
So  breaks  in  rapture  from  her  jewelled  mouth, 

The  dazzling  smile,  half  sunshine,  half  perfume. 

Then,  from  its  fragrant  home  of  pearl  and  rose 
Her  ever-tuneful  tongue's  flushed  nightingale 

In  warbling  silver,  'mid  a  thousand  throes, 

Pours  forth,  once  more,  that  burning  fairy  tale  : — 

"  O,  thou  art  come  !  O,  thou  art  come  at  last, 

To  wake  to  ecstasy  this  love  of  ours  ; 
And  call  me  back,  from  out  the  sainted  past 

Where  I've  been  twining  wreaths  of  dreamy  flowers.  ' 


"O,  how  I've  gloated  o'er  that  one  loved  name. 
With  all  my  being — all  my  soul  on  fire. 

Till  turned  to  very  ashes  in  the  flame, 

Like  some  rapt  Hindoo  on  her  funeral  pyre." 


CIO  CDS. 


119 


CLOUDS. 
Wet-nurses  of  tlie  flowers, 

Come  spread  your  wings  l)ctwcen  them  and  the  sun. 
Or  they  shall  bo  undone 
While  passing  through  this  waste  of  sultry  hours. 

Sweet  odors  on  the  plain 

And  drooping  violets  in  yonder  vale, 

Are  waiting,  faint  and  pale, 

To  breathe  afresh  and  scent  the  blessed  rain. 

Come  laden  then  with  showers, 

And  o'er  the  dusty  hill  and  tangled  mead 

Scatter  the  shining  seed, 

That  soon  shall  bloom,  wet-nurses  of  the  flowers. 


120 


THE  CHURCH  OF  HUMANITY. 


Let  its  proud  dome  fill  all  the  azure  steep, 

And  its  vast  chancels  stretch  from  pole  to  pole ; 

So  that  its  mighty  and  majestic  sweep 
Give  ample  space  for  every  human  soul. 


"^ 


i 


'i 


THE  CHURCH  OF  HUMANITY. 

We  cannot  build  it  of  the  crumbling  bones 
Quarried  from  the  grim  sepulchres  of  yore  ; 

Nor  of  the  hollow,  mythologic  stones 
That  shone  so  gaudily  in  classic  lore; 

We  cannot  fashion  it  of  heads  or  creeds 
That  parcel  out  our  God  before  our  face  ; 

But  rather  build  it  of  the  thoughts  and  deeds 
That  purify  and  elevate  our  race. 

Set  its  foundations  deep  in  every  zone. 

Its  ritual,  on  every  shining  page, 
Is  love  to  God  and  love  to  man  alone, 

And  pity  for  the  errors  of  the  age. 


IMPROMPTU-  HER  E  YES, 


Ml 


IMPROMPTU— HER  EYES. 


Within  those  eyes  both  hght  and  darkness  beam, 
Each  in  the  rapture  of  its  own  extreme  ; 
So  brightly  dark  and  yet  so  darkly  bright, 
That  we  confound  the  shadow  with  the  light. 


! 


122 


OCEAN. 


OCEAN. 

Awake,  dark  Ocean,  in  thy  strength  !    My  soul 
Loves  the  hoarse  music  of  thy  deep-mouthed  bay  ; 

Flash  forth  ye  tires  !  ye  mighty  thunders  roll ! 
To  me  there's  joy  in  every  lurid  ray, 
And  every  shout  that  swells  the  gathering  fray 

At  which  pale  mortals  in  their  anguish  cower. 
Let  me  in  adoration  soar  away 

And  join  the  glorious  revel  of  the  hour, 
And  mock  at  all  that  lives  of  human  pomp  and  power  ! 


Thy  waters  are  earth's  vanquishers  alone ; 

All  that  its  millions  fear  thou  dar'st  defy  ; 
No  sovereignty  thou  knowest  save  thine  own  ; 

Even  Fire's  red  king, — before  whom  nations  fly- 

And  all  his  hosts  howl  in  thy  grasp  and  die  ; 
Nor  leave  behind  upon  thy  boundless  zones, 

One  trace  to  tell  where  they  in  darkness  lie 
Among  thy  nameless  cities,  fleets,  and  thrones — 
Unfathom'd  sepulchre  of  long  lost  empire's  bones  ! 


OCEAN. 


123 


! 

J 


Should  Time's  vain  sons  in  one  wild  tumult  rush 
Down  to  thy  shores,  and  with  their  mightiest  cry 

The  tempest  of  thy  voice  essay  to  hush, 

And  call  thee  downwards  from  that  gloomy  sky, 
'Twould  be  as  though  the  sea-mew,  passing  by, 

Had  wail'd  its  feeble  note  upon  the  blast  ; 

Even  the  fell  winds  their  direst  whoop  shall  try. 
And  the  deep  crater  bellow  to  the  last, — 
Thou  can'st  out-shout  them  all — dread  conqueror  of  the 
past ! 


I  kneel  ! — thou  art  in  audience  with  thy  God, 
In  the  dark  palace  of  the  thunder  cloud  ! 

Thou  art  called  forth  ;  and  at  His  awful  nod 

Upwards  thou  rollest  ;  while  the  mysterious  crowd, 
That,  in  mail'd  splendor,  thy  dim  depths  enshroud, 

Each  impulse  in  their  coral  caverns  shai-e. 
And  own,  in  silence,  that  thou  now  art  bowVl 

Before  Him,  in  the  regions  of  the  air, 
And,  that  sublimely  heaving,  thou  dost  worship  tiiere  1 


■? 


Hi      ' 


124 


IDYL. 


IDYL. 

Morning  stands  in  the  gates  of  the  East, 
With  a  single  star  pinned  in  the  night  of  her  hair 
That's  thrown  back  till  her  bosom  and  brow  are  as  bare 

As  if  draped  but  to  gladden  a  feast ; 
While  her  eye  and  her  cheek,  flashing  gloriously  there, 
Flood  with  purple  and  crimson  the  tremulous  air 

As  the  wine  floods  and  flushes  a  feast. 


Now,  the  landscape  is  set  to  the  music  of  June, 
And  the  breezes  and  streamlets  and  bees  are  in  tune  ; 
While  the  full-throated  warblers  that  haunt   the    cool 

bowers, 
Chant  their  matins  aloud  in  the  bright,  purple  hours, 
And  the  ruby-flecked  tenants  that  people  the  brook 
Are  yet  unallured  by  the  treacherous  hook  ; 
While  the  wiid-bird,  in  nooks  that  are  silent  and  lone, 
Sits  as  still  on  her  nest  as  if  sculptured  in  stone. 


IDYL. 


\2' 


re 


See  the  steed,  that  arose  at  the  first  peep  of  dawn, 
Shake  the  dew  from  his  coat  on  the  sweet-scented  hiwn, 
And  the  milkmaid,  that  gathers  the  kine  round  her  pail. 
Add  the  rose  on  her  cheek  to  the  rose  of  the  vale  ; 
While  the  flowers  at  her  feet,  in  most  exquisite  bloom, 
Pour  abroad  on  the  air  all  their  richest  perfume. 
And  the  husbandman  tends  the  green   blades  on  the 

wold. 
That  shall  yet  glow  around  him  in  ridges  of  gold. 


:)1 


126 


TO  MUSIC. 


TO  MUSIC. 

What  name  O  Music,  lovst  thou  best- 
'  .;' .  cci  foretaste  of  the  joys  above ;  " 
iie.a .  :.,<■  language  of  the  blest ; 
Or  soul  of  •''  elin^f,  soul  of  love  ; "? 
r^^ar  niist'\        '.  iny  spirit's  tone, 
These  all  uie  t...ac — and  thine  alone. 


When  softly  o'er  my  list'ning  ear, 

Thy  magic's  mellow  whisp'rings  steal. 

That  spirit  trembling  in  a  tear. 

To  every  dying  note  could  kneel, 

And  wish  'twere  from  this  chain  unbound. 

To  bear  it  to  the  heaven  of  sound. 


AMEN! 


127 


1 


AMEN  ! 


(1864.) 


God  of  the  bleeding  North  and  South, 
Restore  their  mangled  brotherhood, 

Who  now,  before  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Lie  weltering  in  each  other  s  blood. 


They  are  the  children  of  one  sire, 
And  both  have  claims  alike  on  Thee  ; 

Then,  stay  the  work  of  sword  and  fire, 
And  let  the  freedmen  still  be  free. 


Oh  !  listen  while  the  nations  plead — 
Who,  too,  have  reaped  the  bitter  yield. 

And  frightful  harvests  that  succeed 
The  red  rain  of  the  battle  field 


128 


AMEN! 


l\ 


And  curb  the  anger  and  the  pride 

Now  blindly  struggling,  hand  to  hand  ; 

And,  in  thy  pity,  turn  aside 

The  flood  that  darkly  sweeps  the  land. 

If  blood  did  e'er  from  sin  release 
A  people  of  one  common  flesh, 
They,  in  the  white-robed  arts  of  peace, 
Have  offered  up  a  Christ  afresh. 

Oh  !  stay  the  awful  tempest,  then, 
And  let  the  glory  of  Thy  face 

Break  through  the  darkness,  once  again, 
Upon  this  brave,  misguided  race. 


' 


l! 


J^ONG. 


SONG. 


129 


Come  to  me,  idle  wind, 

Come  to  me — sin^  to  me  ; 

Come  from  my  waiving  flower, 

And  her  sweets  bring  to  me  ; 

Come  from  her  dewy  bower, 

And,  when  you're  coming, 

Bring  me  tlie  early  song  that  she  is  humming. 

Come  to  me,  idle  wind, 

Come  to  me — sing  to  me  ; 

Come  from  her  dewy  bower, 

And  its  sweets  bring  to  me. 

Fly  to  me  idle  wind, 

Fly  to  me — sing  to  me  ; 

Fly  from  her  couch  of  balm, 

And  its  sweets  bring  to  me  ; 

Fly  when  she  slumbers  calm. 

And,  when  you're  flying. 

Bring  me  the  name  that  you  hear  her  half  sighing. 

Fly  to  me,  idle  wind. 

Fly  to  me — sing  to  me  ; 

Fly  from  her  couch  of  balm, 

And  its  sweets  bring  to  me. 


. 


130 


ADDKESS, 


ADDRESS. 

Spoken  by  Miss  Cora  Jefferson  at   the  operiing  of  the  first  Museum 
and  Opera  House,  Buffalo,  N.  Y 

In  this  fair  land  of  genius,  every  hour 
Lends  some  briglit  feature  to  the  busy  age, 
And  clothes  the  bar,  the  pulpit  and  the  stage — 
That  classic  triad — with  new  pomp  and  power ; 
'Till  Virtue,  Truth  and  Pleasure,  all  combined, 
Alike  enchant  and  elevate  the  mind. 

Yes,  here,  where  Freedom's  whitest  flag's  unfurl'd 
Beneath  the  purple  of  the  purest  skies, 
New  altars  and  new  domes  to  them  arise — 
The  glory  and  the  envy  of  the  world  ; 
And  we  would  humbly  follow  in  the  train, 
And  to  the  list  add  yet  another  Fane. 

And  what  more  genial  site  could  one  divine 
Than  this,  so  gently  sloping  from  yon  wave, 
Where  throng  to-night  the  beauteous  and  the  brave 
Whose  virtues  through  their  faults  and  foibles  shine — 
Where  trade  and  commerce  flourish  hand  in  hand. 
And  peace  and  plenty  bless  the  teeming  land. 


J 


AZWA'ESS. 

And  where,  while  struggling  in  life's  mighty  van, 

The  noblest  aspirations  tire  the  mind, 

And — the  most  human  of  the  human  kind — 

Man  seeks  to  elevate  his  fellow  man, 

And  wreathe  his  honored  country's  glowing  name 

With  every  laurel  known  to  wealth  and  fame. 

And  what  a  pleasing  mission  shall  he  ours  ; 
For,  now  that  heaven  has.  wiped  away  our  tears, 
And  into  ploughshares  beaten  all  our  spears, 
We'd  strew  the  path  of  youth  and  age  with  flowers ; 
Nor  leave  one  thorn  concealed  amid  the  bloom 
To  wound  the  feet  that  they  should  but  perfume. 

Then  boldly  on  your  aid  we  shall  rely  ; 
For,  know  that  we  but  ask  it  on  the  part 
Of  Nature  and  her  dumb  twin  sister,  Art, 
And  all  that  charms  the  ear  t)r  lights  the  eye, 
As  well  as  every  subtle,  inward  sense 
That  owns  the  power  of  silent  eloquence. 


131 


And  thus,  sustained  by  your  approving  smiles, 
This  temple  of  the  Muses  yet  shall  stand 
A  sculptured  pillar  in  this  favored  land  ; 


132 


ADD  A' ESS. 


While  its  fair  priestess  with  her  gracious  wiles, 
Shall  place  it  on  that  eiiiiiienco  sublime 
Where  not  one  other  step  remains  to  climb. 


So,  now,  kind  friends,  as  he  may  read  who  runs, 

Long,  long  be  yours  prosperity  anil  health. 

And  long,  long  live  tiiis  glorious  Commonwealth 

With  all  its  recent  brave,  historic  sons. 

And  this  proud  mart — but,  hark  ! — The  prompter's  bell  I 

Lathes  and  gentlemen, — a  brief  farewell. 


I 


sirALLon's, 


133 


SWALLOWS. 

Like  shining  shuttles,  weaving  the  bright  spring, 
See  how  they  flash  throughout  ihe  bahiiy  air, 

Whose  sunny  warp  and  woof  symphonious  ring 
To  their  gay  twitter,  and  their  swift  wing  there. 

Or  see  them  dip  into  the  silvery  stn  .im, 

Anil,  dripping,  shoot  athwart  the  crimson  west, 

Till,  in  its  deepening  glow,  the  spray  drops  seem 
Some  beam  of  evening  po\^''lered  on  their  breast. 

But  something  far  more  dear  these  sports  foretell 

The  scented  mead,  the  grove,  the  bee,  the  flower. 

And  the  flushed  lover  hastening  down  the  dell,  , 

To  merge  all  sunshine  in  one  twilight  hour — 


1 


To  taste  the  dew  that's  tinged  with  pearl  and  rose. 
And  whisper  softly,  mid  the  trembling  leaves. 

To  some  one  sighing  gently,  as  she  goes, 

"  Oh,  would,  the  swallows  never  left  our  eaves." 


134 


THE  QUANDARY, 


THE  QUANDARY. 

Call  it  not  noon,  false  skies,  it  can't  be  noon  : 
She  slumbers,  and  we  need  not  look  for  light  ; 
for  while  those  eyes  are  closed  it  must  be  night  : 

And  who  shall  kiss  them  out  of  the  sweet  swoon  ? 

And  would'st  thou  call  it  dawn  should  they  ope  now, 
Pleading  such  lustre  as  is  hidden  there  ; 
Surely,  false  skies,  the  earth  could  never  bear 

The  light  of  two  such  mornings  on  its  brow. 

But  night  or  day  may  still  glide  on  apace  ; 
For  if  in  soft  repose  she  slumbers  yet ; 
'Fhe  shadow  of  the  radiance  that  is  set 

Divinelv  plays  about  her  sainted  face. 


Then  say,  where  lies  this  strange,  enchanting  spell- 
In  her  bright  opening  orbs  or  slumbers  calm, 

Or  her  sweet  lips  that  flush  their  own  sweet  balm 
For  I  am  sore  perplexed,  and  cannot  tell .'' 


TJIE  J-ATAL  CAPE. 


135 


thp:  fatal  cape. 

Around  her  rayless  path  the  dark  fog  lay, 

As  though  the  dull,  cold  air  were  thick  with  crape  ; 

While    through  the  deepening   gloom    she   gropes  her 

way — 
A  funeral  ship along  that  fatal  cape. 

And,  though  her  iron  bulk  seems  tried  and  true, 
And  twice  two  hundred  souls  in  her  have  faitii, 
A  weird  silence  reigns  among  tlie  crew, 
'I'hat  seems  the  presage  of  approacliing  death. 

That  crash  !  O,  God,  she  strikes  a  sunken  rock  I 
And  never  shall  slie  plough  the  waves  again  ! 
A  long,  wild  cry  accompanies  the  shock. 
And  all  the  sea  is  filled  with  drowning  men  1 

With  a  pale  throng  the  latest  boat  has  gone— 
Escaping  swiftly,  and  in  dire  alarm, 
trom  the  mad  swimmers,  sinking  one  bv  one. 
Till  disappears  the  last  ujilifted  arm  ! 


T 


136 


THE  VESPER  HYMN. 


THE  VESPER  HYMN. 

Amid  the  purple  sunset  hours, 
Humming  like  an  angfel's  wing-, 

Within  a  nook  of  wayside  flowers, 
A  little  child  began  to  sing. 

At  first  her  voice  was  almost  mute— 
A  sort  of  soft,  melodious  hush  ; 

But  soon  it  broke  into  a  lute, 

To  emulate  a  neighboring  thrush. 


I     , 


As  though  the  song  of  seraphim 

Came  gushing  from  the  upper  spheres, 

Then  rose  a  wondrous  vesper  hymn 
Upon  my  eager,  ravished  ears  ; 


And  as  the  concert  grew  apace, 

And  child  and  bird  sang  out  amain, 

The  sun  poured  on  her  upturned  face 
A  glory  like  to  golden  rain. 


:    ■ 

I         i 

■ 
! 

9 


ri/E   VEHPER  HYMA\ 

While  in  the  glow  of  parting  day, 

The  warbler  shook  his  shining  throat, 

As  if  new  raptures  fired  the  lay- 
He  heard  repeated  note  for  note. 

And  when  at  last  the  magic  song 

Was  o'er,  and  child  and  bird  grew  dim, 

I  thought,  with  saddened  heart,  how  long 
Since  I  had  sung  tny  vesper  hymn. 


'37 


i3« 


FEBRUARY. 


FEBRUARY. 

The  famished  sun  crawls  through  a  flaw  in  night, 
And  blurs  the  hissing  tempest  into  morn, 

Spreading  a  misty  pool  of  sickly  light 
That  widens  till  the  ghastly  day  4s  born. 

And  lonely  trees,  on  uplands,  blown  as  bare 
As  beggars  on  the  hills  when  winds  are  (.ait, 

Stagger,  like  drunken  giants,  in  the  air, 
And  wildly  toss  their  naked  arms  about. 


I  ' 


The  ocean,  agonized  with  winds,  and  sleets 

That  pave  an  angry  pathway  down  from  heaven, 

Thunders  and  smokes  among  the  shattered  fleets 
That,  like  dead  sea  fowl,  on  the  rocks  are  driven. 

And  the  bright  river,  v.'ith  its  deep-toned  lute, 
Anil  brook,  that  sang  amid  the  flowery  wild, 

]ieneath  an  icy  slab,  dark,  drear  and  mute, 
Lie  side  by  side — dead  mother  and  dead  child. 


FEBRUARY. 


139 


And,  now,  the  blue-lipped  orphan  treads  the  street, 
With  naked  shoulders  pressed  against  her  ears, 

Washing  the  red  stains  from  her  bleeding  feet, 
At  every  trembling  pause,  with  bitter  tears. 


While,  'mid  the  gloomy  waste  that  'round  her  lies, 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  cheer  her  can  she  trace  ; 

For  the  dumb  earth,  before  her  sunken  eyes, 
A  huge,  chill  ball  of  anguish  rolls  through  space. 


I40 


AT  LAST!    AT  LAST! 


AT  LAST  1     AT  LAST  I 

The  smouldering  heavens  have  fallen  upon  the  plain  ; 

And  through  the  haze  the  drowsy,  hot  wind  flows, 
Till  there  is  but  a  dark  and  sultry  stain 

Where  stood  the  crimson  glory  of  the  rose. 

No  playful  pinion  fans  the  empty  sky ; 

The  song  within  the  languid  grove  is  done, 
And  drooping  lilies  like  dead  maidens  lie 

In  the  red  war-path  of  the  Indian  sun. 

The  wayside  shrub  in  vain  holds  out  its  hands  ; 

The  panting  kine  creep  close  beneath  the  hill ; 
And  in  the  dell  the  cottage  maiden  stands, 

A  thirsty  angel  near  an  empty  rill. 


But  see  ! — at  last  along  the  burning  capes 
That  stretch  their  dusty  limbs  upon  the  sea, 

The  Christed  shower  among  the  famished  grapes, 
Performs  again  the  feat  of  Galilee  ! 


AT  LAST t    AT  LAST  1 


141 


And  touches  with  a  myriad  silvery  wands 

The  poor  parched  flowers  that  strew  the  voiceless 
earth, 

Till,  bursting:  from  their  soiled  and  weary  bonds 
Each  starts,  a  phtjenix,  into  second  birth. 

And  Nature "s  soul  becomes  attuned  once  more, 

Till  gazing  on  the  apostolic  trair 
,  That  sweeps  the  sky,  we  almost  could  adore 
The  clouds  that  preach  the  gospel  of  the  rain. 


I 


III 


142 


SONG. 


SONG. 


I  ASK  no  joys  but  those  you  give — 

No  joys  but  those  you  share ; 
No  lips  but  yours  to  bid  me  live  ; 

No  smiles  but  those  they  wear.   ' 

No  morn  but  what  o'erspreads  your  cheek ; 

No  light  but  from  your  eye  ; 
No  music,  love,  but  what  you  speak  ; 

No  language  but  your  sigh. 

No  pillow,  darling,  but  your  breast ; 

No  curtain  but  your  hair, 
To  fall  in  clouds  around  my  rest, 

And  shade  my  rapture  there. 


CHKlHTMAii. 


H3 


CHRISTMAS. 

Ring  out  !  ring  out !  sweet  Christmas  chimes, 
The  Yule  log  roars  upon  the  hearth, 

We  would  recall  the  good  old  times, 
When  all  the  land  was  filled  with  mirth. 


Once  more  upon  the  wings  of  time 
Your  happy  freaks  and  frolics  bring, 

And  let  your  notes  blend  with  the  rime, 
That's  wrought  by  our  gray  Northern  King. 


His  gems  float  through  the  morning  air, 
Like  diamonds  broken  in  the  hVht, 

And  strown  the  landscape  everywhere 
With  all  the  radiance  of  his  white. 


144 


I 


CHRISTMAS. 

And  from  the  shining,  icy  floor, 

Where  youth  and  beauty  glide  along, 

We  hear  repeated,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  joyous  laugh  and  joyous  song. 

Ring  out !  nor  e'er  a  moment  pause  ; 

Let  all  be  gay,  around,   above, 
For  we  all  wait  some  Santa  Claus, 

To  meet  us  in  the  way  we  love. 


L 


OUR  WORK. 


M5 


OUR  WORK. 

Good  people,  quit  your  weary  knees, 
Your  drowsy  prayers  and  useless  sighs, 

And  leap  up  to  your  feet  and  seize 
The  present  moment  as  it  flies. 

God  fixed  the  destiny  of  men, 

From  the  first  hour  that  saw  their  birth, 
A  brawny  arm  and  tongue  and  pen, 

To  deal  alike  with  heaven  and  earth. 

We  want  no  maudlin,  lazy  crowds. 

With  lengthened  face  and  upturned  eye, 

Communing  with  the  empty  clouds 
That  float  above  them  two  miles  high. 


An  honest  heart  and  sturdy  hand, 
These  are  the  implements  we  want 

To  till  the  heart  and  till  the  land, 
Instead  of  all  this  wretched  cant. 


t 


I 


146  OUR  WOKK. 

Those  who  aright  would  worship  God, 
Must  leave  a  record  of  their  creed 

Upon  the  expectant  soul  and  sod, 
In  sowing-  both  with  proper  seed. 

And  when  the  work's  securely  done 
Within  the  heart  and  on  the  plain, 

No  fear  but  Ho'll  supply  the  sun, 
No  fear  but  Hell  supply  the  rain. 


11 U:  AA'UEL   Ol'   TJJE  UROOK. 


>47 


' 


TIIK  AN(;Kr.  OF  TIIK  UROOK. 

SwKF.T  aiigc'l  of  the  brook  whoso  snowy  wings, 
That  (Irip.  from  morn  till  nij^ht,  with  shining  spray, 
Arc  ever  tremhling  o'er  tiicse  lips  of  mine 
And  tilling  with  pure  nectar,  day  by  day, 
The  crystal  cuj)  that  I  would  till  with  wine 
As  madly  I'd  forsake  the  sp.nrkling  springs 
Tliat  hiugh  and  sport  through  many  a  sylvan  nook, 

Sweet  angel  of  the  brook. 


I'll  taste  no  deep  stained  fount  where  rubies  burn, 
But  the  bright  stream  that  leaps  the  jewelled  crag, 
And  hangs  its  dazzling  curtain  in  the  air, 
While,  safe  at  last,  the  weary,  simset  stag. 
Tangled  with  rainbows  that  entwine  him  there, 
Drinks  the  cool  silver  from  thy  rocky  urn  ; 
There  shall  I  pledge  thee,  with  one  long,  fond  look, 

Sweet  amrel  of  the  brook. 


148 


HER  TONGUE. 


HER  TONGUE. 


Thkkk  dwells  a  crimson  nightiiig^ale 

Within  a  cage  of  pearl  and  rose 
Through  whose  bright  bars  a  burning  tale 

Of  love  and  passion  ever  flows. 

And  I  so  cherish  the  sweet  lay 

That,  filled  with  perfume,  'round  me  pours, 
Whenever  it  would  die  away, 

I  fly  and  kiss  the  prison  doors. 


THE   WOODS. 


149 


THE  WOODS. 

The  mourning  woods  now  bare  their  aching  breast. 

And  wildly  toss  their  naked  arms  on  high 
O'er  the  last  shreds  of  their  autumnal  vest'' 

That  float  in  eddies  through  the  cold,  bleak  sky. 

The  sear  earth  wraps  its  sackcloth  round  their  {^g\, 
And  snou's  like  ashes  fall  upon  their  head, 

While  many  a  bitter  tear  of  cutting  sleet 
Is  darkly  oer   the  leafless  ruin  shed. 

And  the  chill  fingers  of  the  wintry  blast 

O'er  their  wild  harp-strings  are  in  sadness  swept, 

Till  one  might  feel  the  beauties  of  the  past 
Lay  not  unsung,  unhonored,  and  unwept. 


i5« 


7 1  IE  BEWILDERED  KIVER. 


'Yi 


THE  BKWILDKRED  RIVER. 

Oh,  river  !  river  !  on  thy  shining  way 

Thou  never  yet  hast  seen  a  morn  so  fair ; 

For  on  thee  pours  a  more  celestial  ray 
Than  thou  canst  calmly  hear. 

This  blue  dawn  mig-ht  have  longer  slept  in  night, 
For  thou  woukl'st  not  have  missed  it  from  the  skies, 
While  travelling  onwanl  in  the  wondrous  light 
Of  those  dark,  lustrous  eyes 

Those  liquid  orbs  whose  all-pervading  glow 

Might  touch  thy  coldest  waves  with  fond  desire. 

And  bathe  thy  silvery  tenants  far  below 
In  mellow,  crystal  fire — 


Might  bathe  them  in  strange  glory,  till  they  flew 
From  out  thy  breast  in  sportive  jets  of  flame, 

Seeking,  so  strange,  the  splendor  of  their  hue. 
The  source  from  whence  it  came. 


THE  BEWILDERED  KIVEK. 


151 


But  thou  art  sore  bewildered  in  the  blaze 

That  now  doth  light  thee  downwards  to  the  main; 
For  not  a  sing-le  drop  touched  by  those  rays 


Shall  e'er  be  dark  again. 


And,  when  they're  scattered  wide  on  distant  strands 
So  pure  a  lustre  still  shall  cling  to  them. 

That  wanderers  oft  shall  stoop,  with  eager  hands, 
To  clutch  some  fancietl  srem. 


152 


THE  POET. 


THE  POET. 

'Mid  the  pale  ashes  of  his  dreamy  face, 
The  embers  of  his  eyes  begin  to  glow  ; 

His  gorgeous  livery  waits  in  empty  space, 
Witn  eager  pulses  flashing  to  and  fro. 

Breathless  he  mounts  his  flaming  chariot  now, 
And,    like    the    prophet,   swift    is    heavenwards 
rolled, 

Till  the  shekinah  burns  upon  his  brow, 

With  lustre  that  would  blind  the  priests  of  old. 


But,  soon  he  will  descend  with  living  bread 
For  the  proud,  thoughtless  beggars  of  our  race  ; 

And,  with  unheeded  glories  round  his  head, 
Resume,  once  more,  his  weary  leaden  pace. 


EYES. 


»53 


EYES. 

Oh  Beauty  ! — thou  magical  skeleton  case, 
In  thy  brow  two  of  God's  living  jewels  are  set 
As  soul-stars,  to  guide  the  lost  ones  of  our  race, 
Who  are  strangers  to  heaven  and  happiness  yet. 


ards 


But  thy  eloquent  beacon  too  seldom  appears 
Flashing  faithfully  down  on  the  wanderer's  feet  ; 
Or  endeavoring  to  beam  through  a  deluge  of  tears. 
In  the  gloom  where  Affliction  and  Misery  meet. 


Yet,  alas  !  on  each  folly  that  secretly  twines 

A  bright,  beautiful  serpent  around  us  so  fast. 

From  the  depths  of  its  treasure,  the  mellow  light  shines, 

'Till  the  fifaze  of  the  monster  is  on  us  at  last. 


And  we  wander  through  life,  like  a  phantom  unblest. 
As  we  struggle,  in  vain,  to  shake  off  his  control  ; 
'Till  the  last  ray  of  hope  flickers  out  in  our  breast, 
And  we  die,  with  his  fangs  buried  deep  in  our  soul. 


154 


EYES. 


\ 


\      I 


Oh  I  then,  while  the  spoiler  relentlessly  preys 
On  the  flowerets  and  fruits  of  the  heart's  purest  bloom, 
Shall  the  banquet  be  treach'rously  lit  by  the  rays 
'J'hat  were  kindled  by  heav'n  to  avert  such  a  doom  ? 

Oh,  never  ! — those  gems  shall  not  shine  at  the  feast, 
Nor  illumine  the  paths  by  the  prodigal  trod  ; 
But  forever  blaze  forth,  like  the  star  in  the  East, 
That  once  led  the  Chaldce  to  the  feet  of  his  God. 


1 1 

I! 


"-TEE  iveet: 


155 


•om, 


"TEE  WEET." 

I  heard  the  lonely  pipin^j  of  a  bird, 

When  the  cold  April  shower  hung  on  his  wing ; 

And  all  the  depths  within  my  soul  were  stirretl 

While  listening  to  the  poor,  dejected  thing, 

As  he  sat  in  the  melancholy  sleet 

Wailing  in  trembling  tones,  "tee  weet,  tee  weet. " 

All  night  he  lay  out  in  the  frozen  moon, 

Upon  a  barren  branch  against  the  skies  ; 

Mocked  by  a  thousand  gleams  of  leafy  June, 

The  moment  that  he  closed  his  weary  eyes  ; 

And  ever  gathering  up  his  chilly  feet, 

While  whispering  dreamily,  "tee  weet,  tee  weet." 

At  sunrise  when  aroused  from  his  unrest, 

He  shook  his  plumes  and  tried  a  happier  note  ; 

But  the  faint  music  died  within  his  breast, 

Before  he  e'en  could  pour  it  from  his  throat ; 

And  drearily,  he  only  could  repeat 

The  same  forlorn  refrain,  "tee  weet,  tee  weet." 


HifpMK 


1 

! 

i 

IS6 


•'rA\ff  IVEE7V 


Alas  !  he  had  begun  too  soon  to  rove ; 

And  vainly  now  the  folly  ho  deplores, 

'I'hat  lured  him  from  the  fragrant  orange  grove, 

To  meet  the  tardy  spring  upon  our  shores, 

And  left  him  in  that  desolate  retreat 

Piping  from  morn  till  night,  "tee  weet,  tee  weet." 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 


157 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 

Beside  a  brook  that  danced  in  silvery  whirls 

Down  through  a  dell  that  caught  its  sparkling  tone, 

As  playfully  it  threw  a  string  of  pearls 
Around  the  neck  of  many  a  mossy  stone, 

There  paused  the  sweetest  of  all  little  girls 

That  had  been  wandering  in  the  wood  alone  ; 

For  where  the  wild  blooms,  in  the  morning  beam. 
In  thickest  clusters  hung  above  her  head, 

Within  a  pool,  that  stole  from  out  a  stream 
And  at  her  feet  a  shining  mirror  spread, 

She  saw  a  laughing  child  as  in  a  dream, 

Laden  with  fragrant  blossoms,  white  and  red. 


One  sultry  noon  again  she  wandered  there. 
And  soon  beside  the  pool  abstracted  stood, 

Gazing  upon  a  vision,  bright  and  fair, 
In  the  first  fervid  flush  of  womanhood, 

With  dreamy,  purple  eyes,  and  golden  hair- 
Soft  eyes  that  pensive  looked  from  out  the  flood. 


158 


THE  MAGIC  MIRROR. 


And  once  again  she  came,  at  close  of  day, 
And  peered  into  the  waters  as  of  yore  ; 

lint  now  she  only  saw — bent,  old,  and  gray, — 
A  palsied  form,  with  features  furrowetl  o'er ; 

And,  taking  one  last  look,  she  turned  away, 
And  to  the  magic  mirror  came  no  more. 


"  THE  visitor:' 


59 


"THK  visrroR.' 

Thougli  stretched  ui)on  my  dungeon  floor, 
I  knew  a  light  came  to  the  door — 
A  far-off  door,  in  iron  mail, 
Hewn  from  a  frowning  mass  of  oak 
On  which  had  rung  the  thunder  stroke 
Three  hundred  years  without  avail — 
But  then,  that  light,  so  sad  and  pale, 
Could  not,  alas  !   an  entrance  win, 
The  jailer  would  not  let  her  in. 


Then  lonely  turning  to  the  stars 

I  felt  sweet  odors  through  my  bars — 

Curst  bars  that  grin  upon  my  gloom  ; 

Foul,  murderous  bludgeons  swung  on  high 

To  brain  the  dayhght  in  the  sky, 

And  weld  me  down  within  my  tomb — 

But,  then,  that  rosy-lipped  perfume. 

Soon  sobbed  itself  away  and  died  : 

The  jailer  pushed  hkr  steps  aside. 


l6o  •'  THE  V'isitor:' 

But,  mark  I — Ore  long,  a  golden  flood 
Swept  oe'r  my  sense,  and,  lo  !  she  stood 
Fast  locked  within  my  fond  embrace. 
She  !   radiant  in  her  raven  hair, 
With  loveliness  I  scarce  could  bear; 
Such  varied  beauties  could  I  trace 
In  her  voluptuous  form  and  face. 
While  now,  in  turn — how  strange  to  say 
She  kept  the  jailer  out  lill  day  ! 


LINES. 


l6l 


TJNES. 

Tho'  the  heart  may  be  sad,  when  the  brow  is  o'ercast 
]\y  some  shadow  that  falls  from  a  dream  of  the  i)ast, 
There's  a  inaj^ical  power  in  the  <,''loom  that  it  brinj^s, 
That  can  only  awaken  those  deepest  tt)ned  strint^s. 

When  the  isles  of  the  deep,  in  the  far  sunset  sky, 
Steal  in  crimson  and  gold  on  the  wanderer's  eye, 
'Tis  the  flushed  ray  of  eve  lends  the  beautiful  gleam, 
And  distance  that  mellows  them  down  to  a  dream. 


And  when   mem'ry  would  trace  on  our  bright  yt)uthful 

years, 
The  wreck  of  our  smiles  in  the  light  of  our  tears, 
The  pencil  is  dipt  in  the  sunset  of  age  ; 
And  time  sheds  that  soft  hallow'd  beam  o'er  the  l)age. 


u. 


162 


"  70yTF/' 


"TOTTY, 


I've  a  sweet,  little  darling  on  whom  we  all  dote, 
Who  is  hovering  about  me  from  morning  till  night, 
With  a  hug  or  a  i^iss,  or  a  pluck  at  my  coat, 
While  her  innocent  heart  bubbles  up  with  delight. 

And  when  trying  to  catch  her,  she  oft  from  me  glides 
Like  a  sunbeam  that  shadows  chase  over  the  floor  ; 
But  I  know  where  the  bright,  little  rattle-brain  hides. 
For  I  hear  her  soft  laughter  behind  the  room  door. 


i     li 


Then,  I  steal  off  on  tip-toe,  and  soon  find  her  out ; 
Though  she  thinks  herself  safe  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
'Till  I  toss  all  her  brown,  silken  tresses  about, 
While  her  silver-strung  voice  like  a  lute  fills  the  hall. 


Then  she  bounds  to  my  bosom,  and  kiss  upon  kiss 
Is  so  rapidly  showered  on  my  forehead  and  cheek. 
That,  o'eicome  by  a  love  so  spontaneous  as  this, 
I  oft  hobble  .iway,  scarcely  able  to  speak. 


totty: 


163 


And  whcp.e'er  through  the  past  I  in  memory  roam, 
Some  odd  prank,  at  my  knee,  bring-s  me  back  with 

surprise, 
To  perceive,  after  all,  I'm  not  sad  or  from  home, 
But  just  dancing  within  the  blue  depths  of  her  eyes. 


r 


164        y0C'SS/i/^''S  SOLILOQUY  IN  THE  STORM. 


JOUSSEF'S  SOLILOQUY  L\  THE  STOR^L 

I'RUM  AN  UM'l'lJLISHEl)  I'OKM. 

Now,  tell  of  the  bright  gem,  ethereal  born, 

That  flashes  on  the  brow  of  the  young  Morn, 

When  naked  from  her  jewelled  couch  she  steals, 

And,  blushing,  all  the  charms  of  light  reveals  ; 

While  through  the  diamond  balm  of  her  repose 

Each  rosy-tinted  feature  brighter  glows, 

Till,  won  by  warmer  ligi  '    she  glides  away 
And  melts  into  the  fervid  arms  of  Day, 

And  tell  us  that  the  Moon,  in  pearly  tlreams, 
Among  the  matted  locks  of  Darkness  gleams 
Pale  as  tired  sunbeams  thai  had  wandered  far 
And  sunk  to  rest  upon  some  distant  star. 
Tell  how  her  dewy  fingers,  soft  and  white, 
Weave  all  the  mystic  glories  of  the  night. 
And  loose,  with  magic  touch,  the  silvery  springs 
That  gush  out  o'er  the  Shadow-Spirit's  wings. 


JOUSSEF'S  SOLILOQUY  IN  THE  STORM.  1 65 

But  what  are  these  ? — mere  tinsel — childish  fires 
Such  as  the  poet's  soul  of  flame  admires 
But  cannot  worship.     Others  may  adore 
A  ray  serenely  pure  but  nothing  more — ■ 
May  breathe  the  mcense  of  the  closings  flower, 
And  drain  its  cup  of  the  ambrosial  shower, 
Drink  in  the  morn,  or  tracing  moonlit  streams. 
Dream  by  the  lake  they  nurse,  the  dream  of  dreams. 

But  he  of  that  sublimely  kindled  eye. 
Kneels  not  to  the  pale  glowworms  of  the  sky  ; 
Nor  from  the  tinted  fount  of  opening  day 
Wins  the  undying  radiance  of  that  ray  ; 
Unmoved  by  these,  alone  he  ceaseless  broods 
O'er  Nature  in  her  mighty  solitudes, 
Unlocks  the  volume  sealed  to  vulgar  crowds, 
And  lost  amid  the  ocean  or  the  clouds. 
Bending  in  silent  awe  his  misty  form 
Drinks  in  the  inspiration  of  the  storm  ! 

There,  as  the  deafening  thunders  o'er  hihi  roll, 
The  energies  of  his  exulting  soul 
Burst  forth  in  all  their  vigor  ;  and  he  feels 
The  thrill  that  beggars  language,  but  reveals 


>1       ! 


!     ^ 


^\ 


1 66  JOUSSEFS  SOLILOQUY  IN  HIE  STORM. 

Mans  immortality — the  living"  thoug-ht 
'I'hat  sets  the  trammels  of  the  flesh  at  naught 
And  fearless,  on  undying  wing  explores 
The  desert  far  beneath  the  sea,  t)r  soars 
Beyond  all  height,  nor  staggers  on  iis  way 
Till  blazing  in  the  dread,  eternal  ray 
That,  blasting  all  ereated  being's  sight, 
Seals  up  the  source  of  uncreated  light. 

Unfathomable  secret,  deepening  still, 
Whose  touch  creative  sent  that  living  thrill 

Through  primal  darkness  till  the  bonds  of  day 

The  floodgates  of  prinieval  light — gave  way, 

And  down  the  steep  a  shining  torrent  rolled 

To  curtain  evening  with  its  mellow  gold 

And  spread  the  azure  of  the  morning  sky. 

Tell  us,  a  spark  of  thine  own  essence  why 

Pent  up  within  these  perishable  veins, 

Boasting  of  its  divinity  in  chains 

From  which  an  angry  wasp  could  set  it  free  : 

What  splendid  shackles  for  a  deity  ! 

The  mystery's  thine,  O  God  !     Thy  power  is  there  ; 

And  he  who'd  madly  thus  the  secret  dare. 

Forgets  that  Thou  alone  canst  understand 

Man,  the  proud  work  of  Thy  almighty  Hand. 


iil'i 


I 


JOUiii^EJ^'S  SOULOQC-yj.V  TJIE  STORM. 
And  bare  the  union  of  his  tvvo-fokl  birth— 
The  purity  of  heaven  and  dross  of  earth 
Combined  to  meet  Thy  will-Forgets  to  l"hee 
The  locks  of  Streng-th  are  shorn  eternally, 
Forgets,  the  rocky  ridge  the  globe  that  spans 
And  the  frail  gossamer  the  zrphyr  fans, 
Alike  are  strong  or  feeble  in  thy  sight, ' 
The  one  not  heavy,  nor  the  other  light 


167 


Ik 


i68 


MORN. 


MORN. 

Peeping  through  her  purple  bars, 
Down  an  endless  street  of  stars, 
Melting  all  the  ingots  up, 

As  her  eyes  more  brightly  shine, 
Morning  in  a  crystal  cup 

Floats  the  bubble  earth  in  wine. 

From  the  red  lips  of  the  sea. 

Out  into  immensity, 

Steals  a  tongue  of  green  and  gold 

Soon  to  swarni  \\\\\\  giddy  flies, 
When  the  mighty  landscape's  rolled 

Farther  to  the  western  skies. 


Splendor  now  by  splendors  quaffed, 
Deeper  grows  at  every  draught. 

Till  the  monogram  of  fire — ■ 
The  round    red  llanos  of  the  sun — 

Fills  with  flame  the  heavens  entire, 
And  sweeps  all  glories  into  one. 


J^E^C'KGAM/ 


.69 


resurga:\i  ! 

('ome  !  let  us  form  a  solid  square, 
No  matter  what  our  creed  or  clan, 

And  ])Uint  our  droopin<i^  standard  theie. 
Beside  some  wounded  Dalgais*  man, 

rill  all  its  emerald  folds  unfurlec 
O'er  yonder  sea  of  kindred  sheen, 

Shall  mid-way  meet  before  the  world, 
Its  other  half  of  living  tureen. 

'llicn  shall  a  rainbow  span  the  skies — 
A  pledge  of  countless  glorious  years— 

The  light  of  a  young  nation's  eyes 
That  flashes  through  her  joyous  tears. 


While  in  his  ancient  glory  decked 
Beneath  the  arch  of  dazzling  rays, 

The  haughty  Celt  shall  stand  erect, 
As  once  he  stood  in  other  days. 

*  The  Dalgais  were  the  favorite  troops  of  Brian  Borrombhe,  or 
Bom.  who,  when  wounded  in  fight  and  unable  to  stand,  requested 
iheii  tht>  <hould  be  lashed  to  a  stake  planted  by  the  side  of  a  sound 
man,  su  au  they  might  still  do  battle. 


I  H'    '< 


:  3 


I 


i   : 


!l 


w 


I 


1!    ! 


170 


77/£  ''BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS." 


THE  "BRIDGE  OE  SIGHS."* 

Make  way  for  the  iron  liorse  that  with  niij^ht  and   main 
Comes  neighinj^,  and  clanking-,  and  thunderinij  over  the 

plain, 
Till  the  air     rows  hot  with  his  furious  chariot  wheels, 
As    they  grind    and    spin,    and  lea]i    at    his    smoking 

heels  ! 

He  is  proud  to-day,  for  he  knows  he  bears  along. 
In  all  his  matchless  strength,  a  numerous,  happy  throng. 
The  gentle  and  the  brave,  and  men  who  won  pure  gold, 
And  dark-eyed  loveliness  Avith  its  own  wealth  untold. 

But  list  !  his  loud  neigh,  seems  a  strange,  long  fiendish 

scream  ; 
And  with  so  deep  a  roar  he  draws  liis  breath  of  steam. 
That  the  dark  iireman  mounts  liigh  on  his  dusky  back 
To  look  out,  for  himself,  along  the  distant  track. 

*  Scene  of  the  tcn-il)le   railway  accident  of  1857  at  the  Desjardin 
Canal  between  Hamilton  and  Toronto,  Canada. 


■ 


THE  ''BRIDGE   OF  SIGHS." 


171 


But  who  cares  for  his  breath  ? — Or  who  cares  for  his 

neigh  ? 
With  half  the  lightning-'s  speed  he  travels  on  his  way, 
And  grinds    down    the   strong   rails,    with    his  broad, 

ponderous  tire, 
Till  they  crack  and  smoke  beneath  him  like  unto  bars 

of  fire. 

Let  him  then,  into  wilder  swiftness  madly  wrought. 
Sweep    through    cleft    mountains  and  through   valleys, 

swift  as  thought, 
Till  the  tall,  telegraphic,  spectral,  wire-bound  posts 
Flash    by  him    in   a  flight  of  strange,  gaunt,   wooden 

ghosts. 

There  can't  be  danger  now,  as  on  he  flics  apace  ; 
For  lynx-eyed  men  are  near  to  guide  him  in  the  race  ; 
And  when  the)'-  reach  yon  bridge  that's  stretched  out  in 

the  air. 
How  gallantly,    you'll  see,   he'll  cross   the   gulf  that's 

there. 

The  dark-eyed   one  now  dreams  of  all   she  loves  on 

earth  ; 
And  the  sweet   child  laughs  loud   in    its   own  sinless 

mirth,- 


i 


172 


THE  "  jiiaDUJ-:  of  skjjis. 


And  the  gay  youth  is  counting  over  his  years  to  come  ; 
Anil  the  men  of  gold  arc  plotting,  in  a  deep,  low  hum. 

But,    (jO(1    of   pity,    see  !    the   bridge    they  now  would 

sweej), 
Ciives  \vay,  and  the  whole  train  leaps  dfiwn  the  awfid 

steep  ! 
Leaps  down  into  the  shuddering,  gloomy  gulf  below, 
Crashing    and    thundering    mid    its    shattered  ice,   and 

snow  ! 


The  dark-eyed  one's  hot  brains  spurt  through  her  raven 
hair  ; 

And  the  limbs  of  the  men  of  gold  are  scattered  every- 
where ; 

And  the  hopeful  youth  is  nothing  but  a  pulpy  mass  ; 

And  the  poor  dead  child  stares  out  through  eyes  of 
strange,  smoked  glass. 

Oh,  God!  who  built  that  bridge  —  that  fatal  bridge  of 
sighs } — 

Who  placed  the  pitfall  there,  before  our  very  eyes? 
Was  it  some  railway-man  who,  in  his  sordid  strife, 
Thought  more  of  a  piece  of  gold  than  he  thought  of  a 
brother's  life  ? 


THE  SriKIT  OF  UaHT. 


^11 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIGHT. 

Mom  I  Mom  on  the  hills ! — how  entranced  wo  behold 

The  first  steps  of  the  beautiful  spirit  of  light, 

As  she  opens  her  long  silken  lashes  of  night, 

And  shakes  out  her  tresses  of  purple  and  gold 

On  the  glittering  crags  of  yon  perilous  height 

That  erst  in  the  gray  mist  slept  cheerless  and  cold. 

So  gorgeous  her  rayon  the  lark's  dewy  breast, 

As  he  sings  her  his  song  in  the  azure  afar, 

'I'hat  the  shei)herd  boy,  gazing,  oft  thinks  him  a  star 

Sinking  into  its  calm  crystal  bosom  to  rest ; 

Till  o'ercome  by  the  blaze  that  encircles  her  car, 

He  descends,  once  again,  to  his  low  grassy  nest. 


She  awakens  the  flowers  from  their  odorous  dreams, 
Brightly  gem'd  with  the  spray  of  the  ocean  of   heaven, 
To  catch  the  rich  dyes  that  were  blotted  at  even, 
When  shadows  crept  in  on  their  banquet  of  beams, 
And  stole  from  their  cheeks  the  deep  tinge  it  had  given, 
And  flooded  the  landscape  witli  cold,  rayless  streams. 


pi 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


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1.25 


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1-4    ill  1.6 


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Photographic 

Sdences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


174 


TIJE  Sl'JRJT  OF  LIGHT, 


And  joyously  now,  in  her  sunny-eyed  glee, 

Iler  rosy-tipp'd  fingers  she  points  towards  the  glade, 

In  the  face  of  the  Kthiop  spectre  of  shade, 

Whose  dusky  brow  pales  as  he  hastens  to  flee 

To  those  solitudes  where,  in  his  dark  cowl  arrayed. 

He  can  crouch  at  the  foot  of  some  huge  spreading  tree. 


! 


AUrUMX  SONG 


175 


AUTUMN-SONG. 

The  heavens  have  dropped  in  showers  of  gold, 

Upon  the  bright  Danajan  fields  ; 
And  up  the  east  the  sun  is  rolled, 

In  all  the  light  his  glory  yields. 
Then  brothers  let  us  haste  away, 
And  seize  the  treasures  while  we  may. 

With  harmless  jest  and  happy  song, 
We'll  lay  the  full  sheaves  at  our  feet  ; 

And  ply  our  task  the  whole  day  long, 
Unmindful  of  the  fervid  heat. 

And  when  the  failing  light  gets  dim. 

We'll  pause  and  chaunt  our  evening  hymn. 


^ 


176 


THE  GRA  Y  LINNET, 


THE  GRAY  LINNET. 

There's  a  little  gray  friar  in  yonder  green  bush, 
Clothed  in  sackcloth — a  little  gray  friar 
Like  a  druid  of  old  in  his  temple —  but  hush  ! 
He's  at  vespers  ;  you  must  not  go  nigher. 

Yet,  the  rogue !  can  those  strains  be  addressed  to  the 

skies, 
And  around  us  so  wantonly  float, 
Till  the  glowing  refrain  like  a  shining  thread  flies 
From  the  silvery  reel  of  his  throat? 

When  he  roves    though  he  stains  not  his  path  through 

the  air 
With  the  splendor  of  tropical  wings, 
All  the  lustre  denied  to  his  russet  plumes  there, 
Flashes  forth  through  his  lay  when  he  sings  ; 


THE  GRAY  LINNET, 


177 


For  the  little  gray  friar  is  so  wonderous  wise, 

Though  in  such  a  plain  garb  he  appears, 

That  on  finding  he  can't  reach  your  soul  through  your 

eyes. 
He  steals  in  through  the  gates  of  your  ears. 


But  the  cheat !— tis  not  heaven  he's  warbling  about — 
Other  passions,  less  holy,  betide — 
For,  behold!  there's  a  little  gray  nun  peeping  out 
From  a  bunch  of  green  leaves  at  his  side. 


178 


ASSORTED  GEMS. 


ASSORTED  GEMS. 

When  freighted  with  those  sparkling,  primrose-stars 
That  thickly  strew  the  purple  fields  of  heaven, 

At  eve  the  murmuring  waves  in  silvery  cars 
Are  gently  shorewards  by  the  zephyrs  driven. 

There,  as  they  troop  along  their  seashell-road. 
An  angel,  from  her  woodbine  cot  des*  ending, 

Shall  add  the  brightest  jewels  to  their  load, 

While  o'er  them,  with  her  rustic  pitcher,  bending. 


fl 


TO  BACCHUS. 


179 


TO  BACCHUS. 


•stars 


ling. 


As  did  the  Olympian  Thunderers  last  embrace, 
In  ashes  lay  thy  Bcjeotian  mother's  charms, 
So,  now,  from  age  to  age,  the  human  race 
Lies  crushed,  to  dust,  within  thy  iron  arms. 

O'er  every  land  and  tongue  thy  spell  is  cast ; 
And  Fame,  herself,  while  blushing  for  our  sires, 
Owns  that  a  thousand  glories  of  the  past, 
Caught  half  their  lustre  from  thy  wanton  fires. 

Tear  from  thy  brow  that  sunny  wreath— false  god, 

To  thee  belongs  no  leaf  of  vernal  bloom  ; 

Thy  vintage  from  the  broken  heart  is  trod. 

And  thou  should'st  wear  the  emblem  of  the  tomb. 


Unmask,  and  let  the  votary  of  the  bowl. 

Feel,  for  a  moment,  all  thy  dark  deceit ; 

Fear  not— he'll  clasp  thee  closer  to  his  soul. 
And  live  and  die  a  leper  at  thy  feet. 


II 


i8o 


EVENING. 


EVENING. 

With  glowing  hand,  along  the  purple  west 

Now,  evening  strews  the  goUlen  wreck  of  day, 

Antl  gathers  from  the  ocean's  trembling  breast 

The  mellow  fragments  of  its  parting  ray. 

As  slowly  dies  amid  the  deep'ning  shades, 

The  latest  spark  that  struggles  with  their  gloom. 

The  landscape  in  the  lovely  ruin  fades. 

And  earth's  half  plunged  within  her  ancient  tomb. 

O,  light  !  thou  shadow  of  the  Clreat  Unknown, 
That  fell  o'er  shapeless  worlds,  ere  starry  skies 
Were  wrapt  in  shining  folds,  around  His  Throne, 
To  hide  its  majesty  from  mortal  eyes, 
Thou  now  art  fled,  but  not  forever  past. 
Another  day  shall  of  thy  glory  born, 
Close  just  as  sweetly  as  now  clos'd  the  last, 
And  'wake  as  fair,  as  blue,  as  bright  a  morn. 


T^l 


TEAK  ME  FKOM  HE /it 


i8i 


TEAR  IMK  FROM  IIKR  ? 

Didst  thou  but  know  how  deep  this  love  of  mine, 

And  how  each  eager  moment  of  my  Hfe, 

My  very  soul,  I  round  her  shadow  twine, 

Thou  soon  would'st  cease  this  vain — this  cruel  strife. 

Yon  giant  oak  in  all  its  towering  pride 
Up  by  the  roots,  perciiance  thou  mightest  tear  ; 
But  never  canst  thou  move  me  from  her  side 
So  strongly — deeply  am  I  rooted  there. 

What! — tear  me  from  those  beaming  eyes  away, 
Till  into  gloom  the  direst  I  am  hurled  ? 
What !  lock  me  up,  in  the  broad  face  of  day, 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  a  rayless  world  ? 


Ah  !  no,  my  life,  my  light  and  all  were  tied, 
Shouldst  thou  remove  me  from  her  glowing  s]ihere  ; 
For  when  I  leave  her  bosom  now,  Im  dead. 
And  must  retrace  my  steps  to  feci  Im  here. 


i8f 


soa'l;. 


SONG. 

Roses  white  and  roses  red, 

Heavy  with  dew, 
Let  me  whisper  what  they've  said, 

My  love,  of  you. 

One  said,  "  like  me  she's  ruby  bright," 
The  other,  "hke  me,  fair;" 

But  both  said,  trembling  with  delight, 
"Oh  I  twine  us  with  her  hair  ; 

Or  let  us  breathe  her  summer  sigh. 

And  all  her  beauty  share, 
As  on  her  snowy  breast  we  lie 

And  gather  fragrance  there." 


Roses  white  an<l  roses  red, 

Dripping  with  dew, 
This,  my  love,  is  what  they  said 

Of  you  ! — of  you  ! 


|i 


FOUXD  DROWNED. 


183 


FOUND  DROWNED ! 

CoMK  nearer  I  Come  nearer,  I  say  : 

Why  shrink  from  her  now  that  shes  ilead  ? 

What  have  you  to  fear  from  her  more  ? 

Her  faults  and  her  follies  are  o'er: 
'J'his  white-limb'd  atonement  has  wash'd  them  away 
Like  the  wavelet  that  laps  the  dark  hair  round  her  head 

And  siy^hs  her  along  to  the  shore. 

What  have  you  to  fear  from  her  more  ? 
Come  nearer  !  come  nearer,  I  say. 


Of  her  failings — hold  ! — breathe  not  a  breath  ! 
The  curtain  has  falln  on  the  past ; 

Not  a  vestige  of  sin  can  you  trace 

In  the  beautiful  stone  of  that  face 
So  calm  and  surpassingly  sculptured  in  death. 
Poor,  lone,  weary  thing,  she  is  holy,  at  last — 

Neither  sorrow  nor  sin  can  efface 

The  beautiful  stone  of  that  face. 
Of  her  failings — hold  ! — breathe  not  a  breath. 


l84 


J-OL'AD  DNOnWKD. 


See  ♦he  sands  of  her  silvery  shroud 

Sliine  like  stars  throuj^h  the  night  of  her  liair  ; 

licnd  o'er  her, — perhaps  tliey  were  given 

As  she  stole  towards  the  threshohl  of  heaven, 
To  sprinkle  with  light  the  dark  depths  of  the  clou<l 
That  o'ershadowed  the  hope  that  the  lost  one  was  there. 

Hend  o'er  her,  the  darkness  is  riven  ; 

She  hasstol'n  o'er  the  threshold  of  heaven — 
Sec  the  stars  of  her  silvery  shroud  1 


T/fANASCIVJNG. 


I«5 


)U(1 

s  there. 


THANKSGIVIN(;. 


Now  Autumn  like  some  milk-white  ox  of  old, 
Has  trodden  out  her  heavy  slieaves  of  j^ojd 
Upon  the  broad  floor  t)f  tiie  teamiiitr  earth  ; 
Then  let  us  min^de  with  our  joyous  mirth 
\N  «)nls  of  far  purer  import  than  are  those 
At  which  the  fervid  cheek  of  passion  ,i,dows, 
And  raise  a  sonjr  of  heartfelt  praise  to  Him 
Who  fdled  his  children's  store  house  to  the  hrim. 


1 86 


TO  THE  SEA. 


TO  THE  SEA. 

Unfathomable  waste  of  winds  and  waves, 

And  stars  that  tuft  the  purple  woof  of  night 

And  pin  it  shadowed  down  amid  thy  depths, 

How  great  art  thou  in  all  thy  twofold  strength  ! 

Whether  one  vast  unbroken  sheet  of  calm 

Where  the  long  finger  of  the  lonely  mast 

Points  through  the  azure  solitude,  to  God  ! 

Or  whether  from  out  thy  solemn  slumbers  roused, 

Shakmg  thy  dripping  hide  and  awful  crest. 

Thou  goest  forth  to  meet  the  fierce  typhoon 

That,  plumed  with  darkness,  blur'd  with  fire  and  tlame 

Scatters  thy  fleets  'mid  shoals  and  sunken  rocks. 

And  leaves  them  in  dark  fragments  drifting  there  ! 

How  great  art  thou  at  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve 
When  through  the  crimson  portals  of  the  West 
The  huge,  red  furnace  of  the  dying  day 
Pours  out  its  lava  o'er  thy  radiant  floor, 
Till  thou  art  as  the  vestibule  of  heaven 

« 

Leading  to  the  great  drop-scene  of  the  sun 


TO  THE  SEA. 


187 


That  curtains  the  dread  space  before  His  Throne 

And  till  the  earth  clasped  in  thy  glowing  arms    ' 

In  emerald  splendors  borne  along  its  path 

And  thou  dost  seem  a  giant  ruby  set 

Jn  the  broad  chasing  of  a  thousand  shores 

'-here  thou  dost  meet  the  sea-shells  and  the  sands- 

A  rim  of  golden  dust,  and  pearl  and  rose. 


I 


1^  ' 


188  ^00  LATE, 

TOO  LATE. 

Still  painfully — still  painfully  she  sungf 
Like  a  bee  tangled  in  a  honied  flower 
Where  he  had  all  day  long  in  revel  hung 
Till  drunk  with  nectar,  at  the  evening  hour 
He  tried  in  vain  his  drooping  pinions'  power, 
And  sought  to  wheel — as  erst  he  used  to  roam- 
Along  a  sunbeam  to  his  amber  home. 

A  vulture  sat  within  her  burning  eyes. 
Whene'er  they  told  her  she  had  been  beguiled  ; 
And  wildly  gathering  up  the  broken  ties, 
She'd  link  them  while  she  gazed  upon  her  child  ; 
Until  in  white-lipped  agony  she  smiled. 
And,  with  her  anguish  pouring  o'er  the  brim, 
Would  still  believe  that  she  was  all  to  him. 

Her  hope  was  like  a  wounded  bird  that  springs 
Up  through  the  darkness  and  the  tempest's  din, 
And  sweeps  a  shining  desert,  with  his  wings, 
Above  the  clouds  that  shut  his  eyrie  in, 
Until  at  last  his  brain  begins  to  spin. 
And  wearied,  down  he  slowly  sinks  again 
Lone,  dark  and  prostrate  on  the  gloomy  plain. 


THE  CYNOSURE. 


189 


THK  rVXOSURE. 

This  world  of  ours  is  never  dark, 
If  there  is  but  one  little  star 

To  cheer  us  and  to  guide  our  bark, 
Or  near  or  far. 

And  though,  to  less  inquiring  eyes, 
It  may  be  clad  in  feeble  rays. 

It  sheds,  within  our  waste  of  skies, 
A  solar  blaze. 


But  when  dark  shadows  round  \i  thron?r 
Though  all  the  heavens  be  fdled  with  day, 

How  blindly  do  we  grope  along 
Our  ruined  way. 


igo 


£y£Ii  WITH  THEE, 


EVER  WITH  THEE. 

When,  love,  I  for  a  moment  from  thee  part, 
Think'st  thou  that  for  that  moment  I  am  free? 
A  silver  cord  within  my  beating  heart 
I  but  unwind  and  leave  the  end  with  thee. 

So  as  that  in  my  strangest,  fiercest  flight, 
I  but  in  narrowing  circles  round  thee  soar. 
Till  faint  with  absence  at  thy  feet  I  light 
And  nestle  iu  that  balmy  breast  once  more. 


AUTUMN. 


191 


AUTUMN. 


The  ripe  fields  are  scattered  in  eddies  of  gold 
On  the  verge  of  the  forest  that's  kindling  apace  ; 
And  the  orchards  that  dapple  the  wide-spreading  wold, 
Through  their  loopholes  of  leaves — as  we  pause  to  be- 
hold— 
Flash  their  beautiful,  festival  lamps  in  our  face. 


And   the  amber-coned  pear,   with  the   peach's   flushed 

ball, 
And  the  sunny-cheeked  apple  that's  crimsoned  all  o'er, 
Blend  with  pleiads  of  grapes  that  in  purple  showers 

fall 
Over  many  a  green-muffled  trellis  and  wall. 
With    a   thousand  bright  fancies  and  dreams  at  their 

core. 


And  its  coralline  clusters  the  mountain  ash  shakes, 
Till  they  rattle  in  fiery  hail  to  the  ground  ; 
While  the  briar's  red  candles  are  lit  in  the  brakes 
Where  the  robin  besprinkled  with  glory  awakes. 
Thrilling  out  his  sweet  soul  to  the  echoes  around. 


192 


AUTUMN. 


And  the  honey- veined  maple,  beginning  to  flout 
In  the  chill  morning  breath  of  the  sudden  winged  blast, 
Soon  its  deep-scarlet  leaves  shakes  so  ruthlessly  out, 
That  like  clouds  of  dead  butterflies  floating  about, 
They  proclaim  to  the  landscape  that  summer  is  past. 


COLD. 


'93 


blast, 
ut, 

ast. 


GOLD. 

Prince  of  this  sordid  world,  whose  rayless  throne, 

From  age  to  age  has  been  the  human  heart, 

Turning  its  kindliest  feelings  into  stone, 

Thou  wak'st  them  only  when  thou  wouldst  impart 

That  guilty  throb  at  which  they  seem  to  start 

Forth  in  disinterested  purity  ; 

Urging  us,  thy  poor  willing  dupes,  to  feel 

That  heaven  inspires  the  touch  that  sets  them  free, 

'Till  we  at  last,  thou  tenfold  monster,  kneel 

On  Deity  itself  to  worship  thee. 

Religion's  mantle.  Friendship's  beaming  eyes, 
The  statesman,  and  the  arbiter  of  fame, 
The  patriot,  in  his  popular  disguise, 
The  tongue  of  Eloquence,  the  titled  name — 
Offspring  mayhap,  of  plunder,  sword  and  flame — 
The  hero,  too,  whose  sands  in  glory  run, 
All  !  all !  to  thy  unconquered  prowess  yield — 
They  are  the  guilty  trophies  thou  hast  won — 
The  standing  army  of  thy  proudest  field. 


194 


IMPROMPTU, 


IMPROMPTU. 

Twin  fountains  sparkling  side  by  side 
Comingling  their  bright  crimson  spray, 
And  gushing  in  one  glowing  tide 
Though  hidden  from  the  lignt  of  day, 

My  darling,  thus  thy  heart  and  mine. 


And  when  in  darksome  pilgrim-hours 
I  wend  my  way  through  thorns  to  thee 
I  feel  as  though  I  tread  on  flowers 
So  dear  the  pathway  is  to  me 

My  only  lamp,  my  saint,  my  shrine. 


OW/fOAW. 


195 


UN«ORN. 

There's  something;  in  my  soul  unsunj;!- 
A  flood  of  light  behind  a  cloud, 
A  something  that  my  struggling  tongue 
In  vain  essays  to  cry  aloud! 

But  what  it  is  or  whence  it  flows 
I  can't  divine,  though,  bright  or  dim, 
It  seems  to  be  a  fire  that  glows 
Far  down  below  the  crater's  brim. 

And  oft  I  think  'tis  some  great  truth 
Belonging  to  the  higher  spheres, 
Whose  mystic  germs  unknown  to  youth 
Are  planted  in  our  later  years. — 


A  secret  struggling  with  the  gloom 
That  it  in  vain  attempts  to  brave — 
A  something  that  must  burst  and  bloom 
Beyond  the  portals  of  the  grave. 


i 


.!i 


1 


196         ''COME  our  EKOM  AMo.vu  tiiem:' 

"COME  OUT  FROM  AMONG  THEM." 

Ho  !  Step  out  into  broader  li^ht, 
And  shake  thyself  and  lift  thy  head, 
And  backwards  look  into  the  night 

That  thou  hast  tied. 

Behold  the  revel  and  the  rout, 

And  list  the  rattle  of  the  box 

That  knocks  the  ivory  souls  about, 

With  cunning  knocks. 

And  mark  the  wanton's  brow  and  cheek 
(}row  redder  as  each  cup  she  drains 
To  him  who  has  no  power  to  break 

Her  curstid  chains. 

And  count  the  madmen  o'er  and  o'er, 
That  squander  wealth  and  youth  and  time, 
While  huddled  towards  the  gilded  door 

That  leads  to  crime. 

And  see  them  through  the  portal  sweep, 
Without  one  thought  of  being  forgiven. 
While  stumbling  down  the  awful  steep 

That  leads  from  heaven. 


COME  our  J-A'OM  AA/ONU  T/JEM, 


197 


Yes,  stumbling  farther  from  the  skies, 
While  ruin,  at  each  footstep,  starts 
And  paves  the  way  with  sunken  eyes 

And  broken  hearts. 

Though  God  should  strike  the  daylight  dead, 

And  make  a  desert  of  the  sun, 

'Twere  brighter  than  the  life  they've  led, 

Or  what  they've  done 

Then  step  out  into  broader  light, 
And  nerve  thyself  to  smite  the  gloom, 
'Till  thou  hast  crushed  the  tenfold  night 

Of  such  a  doom. 


198 


THE  ENCJIAMKESS, 


TIIK  KXCHAXPRKSS. 

Thf,  tabic  was  rough,  ami  a  pine  one; 

The  viands  were  coarse,  sorry  stuff, 

And  being  scarcely  sufticent  to  dine  one, 

The  case  it  appeared  hard  enough, 

■'Jill  there  laughingly  sat  down  beside  nie 

An  enchantress  whose  magic  untold 

Spread  the  board  with  a  feast,  and  supplied  nie 

With  luxuries  dished  up  in  gold. 


GOLD, 


199 


GOLD. 


I. 

In  the  depths  of  a  dim,  sepukliral  room 

Where  a  pale,  blue  light  seem'd  to  tioat  in  j^Moom, 

And  the  wind,  through  the  mouldering  tapestry  shreds. 

Swung  the  spiders  out  the  whole  length  of  their  threads, 

Sat  a  frail  old  man  in  a  worn-out  vest, 

With  his  gray  eye  fix'd  on  an  iron  ehest  ; 

He  was  eold  without,  and  so  eold  within 

That  a  i)alsy  struck  up  a  tune  on  his  chin  ; 

Ikit,  what  cared  he  for  being  chill  or  old? 

He  grew  young  and  warm  near  a  fire  of  gold, 

So  his  fleshless  hand  wandered  o'er  the  lid 

Till  a  spring  revealed  where  the  brands  lay  hid, 

And  he  bent  him  low,  witli  a  quivVing  gaze. 

To  play,  all  night,  with  their  yellow  bla/e  : 

But,  anon,  he  was  seized  with  unearthly  fear, 

For  a  hollow  voice  chuckl'd  into  his  ear  : — 


200 


GOLD. 


"Not  a  sous,  old  man,  not  a  sous  for  the  poor, 
Let  the  orphan  weep  at  your  bolted  door, 
Let  the  famish"d  dogs  of  the  wint'ry  blast 
Lap  the  beggar's  blood  as  he  staggers  past, 
Hoard  it  up,  old  man,  hoard  it  up  with  care, 
Ha  !  ha  ! — what  a  glorious  mine  is  there  !  " 

Morning  crept  through  the  grating,  bleak  and  chill. 
But  the  eyes  of  the  watcher  were  open  still ; 
Tho'  so  white  his  lips,  and  so  fix'd  his  stare, 
He  now  seem'd  gazing  in  marble  there  I 

n. 

The  dice  box  rattled,  and  the  white  balls  flew, 
And  the  wine-cup  blazed  with  its  gorgeous  hue, 
And  the  dark  eye  flashed  with  the  fatal  light 
That  the  dog-star  sheds  on  a  sultry  night. 
When,  a  spirit,  allured  by  the  sinful  glare. 
Swooped  along,  unseen  through  the  midnight  air, 
And  join'd  in  the  dance,  with  a  step  so  fleet 
That  his  huge,  black  plumes  sung  down  to  his  feet ; 
While  a  frenzy  swept  through  the  festive  hall 
As  he  bowed  and  scraped  to  the  queen  of  the  ball, 
And  whispered  a  thought  whose  destruction  stole 
To  the  secret  depths  of  her  inmost  soul. 


GOLD. 


20I 


And  toyed  with  her  lips  and  her  dazzling  cheek, 
Till  her  young  brain  swam  and  her  leart  grew  weak 
And  the  tide  of  her  passion  came  and  fled 
In  unholy  white  and  unholy  red. 
But,  anon,  in  his  awful  mirth,  he  espied, 
Scattering  wealth  untold  upon  every  side. 
The  lord  of  the  wassail,  whose  reckless  hand 
Fed  with  guilty  gold  all  the  crimes  of  the  land  ; 
Then,  he  paus'd  and  exclaimed,  with  a  horrid  leer, 
"Ha  !  ha  ! — we  shall  soon  have  wild  work  here  !  " 

Time  still  swept  on,  but  the  lights  were  fled, 
The  dance,  long  o'er,  and  the  dancers  dead. 
Save  a  lone,  old  man  who,  in  rags  and  tears, 
Sung  an  idiot  song  of  his  early  years  ! 


III. 

A  mother  caught  the  first  tint  of  joy, 

On  the  face  of  her  half  starv'd  orphan  boy, 

As  though  his  cheek  were  a  poor,  pale  bud 

Hanging  over  his  young  heart "s  crimson  flood  ; 

And  as  in  ecstatic  prayer  she  bent 

O'er  her  loved  one's  breathing  monument, 


202 


GOLD. 


' 


li\ 


She  wept  when  he  feebly  toss'd  his  head 
And  toyed,  for  once,  with  a  crust  of  bread, — 
Then,  a  spirit,  down  from  the  sunset  steep, 
Hung  entranc'd  o'er  the  pair  as  they  sank  to  sleep, 
While  their  trembling  breath  made  his  burning  win;;s 
Murmur  low,  like  a  thousand  half-hush'd  strings  ; 
When  the  flash  of  gold,  from  a  youthful  hand, 
Swept  his  dyes,  as  it  fell  on  the  poor  of  the  land 
Dissolving  the  spell  of  the  dull,  cold  ear 
And  the  seal  on  the  lips  long  voiceless  here, 
And  the  walls  of  the  prisoned  soul  that  lies 
In  the  depths  of  the  blind  man's  dungeon  eyes  : 
Then,  he  shook  from  his  plumes  a  deep  presence  out, 
And  soaring  away,  with  a  mighty  shout 
Exclaim'd,  o'er  the  bright  heaps  thus  laid  bare, 
"Oh  !  God  !  wheit  a  mine  of  bliss  is  there  !" 


The  youth's  fresh  bloom  had  long  pass'd  away, 
But  his  locks  grew  brighter  every  day, 
'Till,  at  last,  he  was  found  one  morn,  'tfs  said, 
With  an  amber  beam  floating  round  his  head  1 


invocation; 


203 


INVOCATION. 

Sing  me  a  New- Year's  song, 
Let  it  be  full  of  rhyme, 
Like  to  the  olden  time 
When,  'mid  the  bearded  throng, 
The  flagons  flashed  along, 
Till  the  blood  began  to  climb 
Up  to  the  heated  brows, 
While  all  the  festive  boughs 
Trembled  in  the  glad  chime 
That  rang  out  on  the  air. 
From  many  a  hoary  spire, 
While  the  gay  peal  grew  higher, 
Mid  songs  and  laughter  there. 


Sing  me  a  New- Year's  song. 
Let  it  be  proud  and  strong 
I  want  no  sickly  rhyme, 
But  a  deep  throated  chime, 


l-i 


I 


■ 

i 

I 

I 

I 


204 


INVOCATION. 

A  shout  from  the  olden  time 

Sonorous  and  sublime, 

While  beauty  rules  the  feast, 

And  the  flagon's  crimson  yeast, 

Like  rubies  gleam  upon  the  bearded  chin. 

As  louder  grows  the  din 

'Till  the  brain  begins  to  spin. 

And  the  wassail  runs  to  heavenly  madness  there, 

And  throws  its  red  beams  on  the  brave  and  fair. 


LINES. 


i05 


LINES 

Be  still  as  the  grave  ! — oh  ! — be  still  1 
A  young  mother  hugs  her  dead  child, 
With  a  look  so  appallingly  wild, 
That  the  only  relief  for  such  terrible  grief 
Is  to  let  the  poor  thing  hug  her  fill — 
Be  still  as  the  grave  !— oh  ! — be  still  1 

'Tis  the  lioness  of  her  despair 

That  howls  'mid  the  waste  of  her  heart, 

And  tears  every  feeling  apart  ; 

Till  the  pulse  of  her  joys  is  as  still  as  her  boy's, 

That's  now  coldly  stiffening  there — 

'Tis  the  lioness  of  her  despair. 

Who'd  pen  up  a  torrent  like  this  ? 

Darkly  swollen  with  misery's  snows, 

The  fount  of  her  bosom  o'erflows  ; 

While  all  we  can  trace  in  its  waves,  is  that  face 

That  now  freezes  the  dew  of  her  kiss — 

Who'd  pen  up  a  torrent  like  this  ? 


^1 


n 


200 


LINES. 


Yes, — now  you  may  take  her  away— 

That  terrible  hurricane's  past, 

And  she  too  has  sunk  with  the  blast. 

While  her  lips  are  as  white  as  a  glimpse  of  moonlight, 

And  her  brow  turns  colder  than  clay — 

Yeb, now  you  may  take  her  away. 


SP/f/A'G. 


207 


t, 


SPRING. 

The  morningf  clouds  are  touched  with  mellow  gold  ; 

The  scentless  winds  have  ceased  their  angry  strife  ; 
And,  like  Pygmalion's  marble  love  of  old, 

The  frozen  earth  is  warming  into  life. 

The  sullen  air  is  melting  into  song  ; 

The  wayside  sod  is  breaking  into  flowers  ; 
And  merrily  the  streamlets  dance  along 

Through  sunshine  scattered  amid  shade  and  showers. 

The  bud  upon  the  silver  willow  swells  ; 

The  crested  grove  is  thickening  in  the  skies, 
Where  the  soft  silken  leaves,  from  out  their  shells, 

Peep  like  the  early  wings  of  dragon-flies. 


The  robin  hymns  the  daylight  down  the  west ; 

The  giddy  swallow  twitters  on  the  wing ; 
And,  like  a  sigh,  warm  from  a  maidens  breast. 

The  gentle  zephyr  whispers"  it  is  Spring." 


/ 


■  V 


'! 


i; 


208 


'HOW LONG,  O  LORDV^ 


"HOW  LONG,  O  LORD?" 

Mistaking  for  the  clear,  cool,  sparkling  rill 
The  stagnant  pool  that  skirts  the  sultry  way, 

The  long-eared  pilgrim  blindly  drinks  his  fill, 
And,  turning  round,  anon  begins  to  bray. 

And  thus  it  is  with  that  dull  tribe  who  think 
They  slake  their  thirst  at  the  Pierian  spring ; 

They  dip  their  muzzles  in  a  steaming  sink, 
Then,  with  distended  jaws,  begin  to  sing. 

Oh,  how  shall  we  escape  that  triple  curse — 
The  plodding  critic,  publisher,  and  bard 

Who  leave  true  Genius  with  an  empty  purse, 
And  make  the  way  of  Poesy  so  hard — 


' 


The  publisher,  with  his  Procrustean  bed. 
Who  cleverly  permits  a  rusty  nail 

To  pick  the  stubborn  lock  he  calls  "a  head." 
While  polished  keys  and  cunning  fingers  fail- 


^' HOW  LONG,  O  LORD?''* 


»09 


The  critic,  too,  who  tramples  down  the  rose, 
While  tending  the  foul  weeds  that  round  it  throng. 

And  breaks  up  in  his  lens  of  stupid  prose 
The  bright  effulgence  of  immortal  song^ 

And  that  dire  enemy  of  tune  and  time. 
Who  for  ambrosia  munches  a  dry  crust. 

And  lies  at  last,  a  scavenger  of  rhyme, 
Beneath  a  monument  of  sweat  and  dust  ? 

Oh,  when  shall  heaven-born  Genius  take  the  field, 
And  hurl  this  cruel  triad  from  their  throne, 

Apd,  Perseus-like,  place  on  Minerva's  shield 
The  Gorgon  head  that  turns  them  into  stone  ? 


aio 


COME  I 


■ 

!   i 
I   i 

-  i 
\  I       \ 

^LA    -M 


COME ! 

Come  shake  out  thy  tresses,  dark,  dazzling  a  id  wild, 
On  the  breath  of  the  morn,  like  a  beautiful  child 
That's  at  play  with  the  winds  on  the  flowery  lea, 
And  haste  my  beloved  one  to  me. 

For  thou  art  the  spirit  of  sunshine  and  bloom, 
That  breathes  all  around  me  this  subtle  perfume, 
And  scatters  the  clouds  and  the  tempests  that  roll 
Through  the  innermost  depths  of  my  soul. 

Oh  !  haste  thee — Oh  !  haste,  and  give  light  to  the  day. 
And  perfume  all  the  winds  and  the  flowers  on  thy  way  ; 
With  thy  silvery  voice  wake  the  songs  of  the  grove, 
And  breathe  the  one  word  that  I  love. 


\. 


TJIK   TEXAA'T. 


an 


TIIK  TKNAXr. 

I    BRisHKn   away    the    thick  and  sombre  dust  of  many 
years, 

And  peeped  in  at  the  window  of  this  pulseless  heart 

of  mine  ; 
But  oh  !  how  soon  I  turned  away  in  aj^onizing  tears 
From  such  a  gloomy  sepulchre — from    such  a  ruined 

shrine. 

There,  in  the  very  centre  of  its  one  great  vault  she   lay 

Stretched  out  upon  the  bier  of  all    my  withered  joys 

and  hopes, 

The  whiteness  of  her  dead  face  being  the  only  vivid  ray 

That   served    to  show   how   desolate   those    broken 

shafts  and  copes. 


I  whispered  "  Oh  !  my    love  !"  but    the    pale    rosebud 
opened  not, 


9li 


THE  TENANT. 


Nor  flashed  the  slumbering  violets  from  beneath  their 

silken  v&il  ;  * 

Then  I  wildly  clasped  her  to  me,  but  no  thrill  electric 

shot 
Throughout  her  snowy  bosom,  or  shook  off  her  icy 

mail. 

V 

And  I  called  her  and  beseeched  her,  till  my  frenzy  shook 
the  skies, 
And  madly  kissed  her  in  the  shadow  of  her  raven 
hair  ; 
But  she  was  cold  to  my  embrace,  and  dead  to  all  my 
cries, 
And  lay  as  placidly  as  if  she  never  knew  me,  there. 


:iFKJNG. 


»5 


SPRING. 

The  spirits  of  air  are  bc^innin^  to  rove 

Among    pathways    that    sparkle     wiih    sunshine    and 

showers, 
And  to  touch  the  chill  depths   of  the  hawthorn  grove 
Till  they  melt  into  music  and  burst  into  flowers. 

And  the  skies  are  becoming  as  blue  as  a  lake, 
While  the  murmuring  breezes,  on  tremulous  plume. 
Sing  as  low  as  a  bee,  in  the  eglantine  brake 
Where  the  primrose  peeps  out,  like  a  star,  through  the 
gloom. 


And   the   meadows   are    dancing    through    light    and 

through  shade  ; 
With  a  bright,  balmy  knot  tossed  in  gold,  here  and  there  ; 
While  the  heifer  at  eve  that  winds  up  through  the  glade. 
With  her  mouth  full  of  cowslips  perfumes  the  whole  air. 

And  the  silvery  voice  of  the  crystaline  brooks. 
Echoes  down  through  the  dell  with  a  magical  tone, 
Or  is  lost  on  the  lea  or  in  lone  shaded  nooks. 
Among  songs,  sighs  and  whispers  as  sweet  as  its  own. 


2U 


THE  OLDEN  MELODY. 


THE  OLDEN  MELODY. 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  for  I  remember  well 
Each  strain  of  that  sweet  olden  melody, 
And  if  you  mark  a  tear  fall  from  my  eye, 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  'tis  only  music's  spell, 
That  'wakes  the  memory  of  days  gone  by. 

That  song  was  ofttimes  sweetly  breathed  to  me, 

By  all  I've  ever  loved  or  can  love  here. 

And  when  its  deep  tones  fell  upon  my  ear. 

They  mellowed  down  my  young  heart's  sunny  glee, 

To  something  that  was  sad,  but  O,  'twas  dear. 

Sing — thou  canst  sing  me  back  to  youth  and  bloom, 
And  should  one  fleeting  moment  mark  my  stay, 
Think  not  it  is  too  brief,  for  locks  so  gray, 
Such  gleams  of  sunshine  cancel  years  of  gloom, 
E'en  tho'  they  only  flash  and  die  away. 


le. 


Y  glee, 


loom, 


r//E  OLDE A'  MELODY. 


215 


Why  hast  thou  ceas'd  ?     I'm  growing  old  again, 
The  stream  plays  colder  round  my  listening  heart. 
Oh  !  dearest,  dearest  vision,  must  we  part  ? 
Would  that  some  power  now  broke  this  mortal  chain, 
Then  should  I  dwell  with  thee  where  e'er  thou  art. 


ii;a 


!;! 


)■ 


2l6 


NOON  AND  MIDNIGHT. 


NOON  AND  MIDNIGHT. 

NOON  ! 

Eternal  One  !  before  thee  now  I  stand, 

And  worship  thee  ;  but  not  through  these  lost  eyes, 

Smitten  to  darkness  by  thy  unseen  Hand, 

For  purposes  all  wise. 

To  trace  thy  steps  I  need  no  outer  ray, 
For  thou  who  dost  these  sightless  orbs  control, 
Hast,  in  thy  mercy,  turned  a  tenfold  day 
In  on  my  darkened  soul. 

Father,  I  see  thee  now,  and  the  bright  rays 
That  fall  upon  this  tomb-like  face  of  mine. 
Are  but  as  midnight  to  the  inward  blaze 
Through  which  thy  glories  shine. 

And,  as  I  feel  that  the  material  sun 
Might  have  estranged  from  thee,  this  erring  mind, 
Oh  !  how  I  thank  thee, — thou  Eternal  One — 
That  I  am  wholly  blind! 


NOON  AND  MIDNIGHT. 


MIDNIGHT  ! 


217 


Oh  !  what  were  life  itself,  if  these  bright  eyes 
Should  close  in  darkness  on  this  beauteous  earth, 
Where  all  my  treasure— all  my  being  lies, 
And  all  my  joys  have  birth  ? 

How  could  I  dwell  locked  up  in  hopeless  night 
Through  which  the  faintest  glimmer  never  stole, 
And  feel  these  eyes,  once  tilled  with  living  light. 
The  dungeon  of  my  soul  ? 

No  stars,  no  skies,  no  fields,  no  vernal  flowers 
To  glad,  with  one  bright  tint,  or  genial  ray 
The  cold,  bleak  desert  of  Cimmerian  hours, 
Through  which  I  grope  my  way 

But  gloom  eternal,  hanging  o'er  the  path 
That  leads  mc  shuddering  from  the  joyous  past. 
Till  some  less  cruel  bolt  of  aimless  wrath 
Strikes  out  my  life  at  last. 


2l8 


CIJILV  OF  THE  (JOLDEN  l/AJK. 


CHILD  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HAIR. 

Child  of  the  golden  hair  come,  tell  me  now, 
Where  lies  thy  pathway  through  life's  thorny  wild? 
On  the  unwritten  page  of  that  bright  brow, 
There's  not  a  trace  to  tell  me  where,  sweet  child. 

The  clust'ring  blossoms  that  thy  feet  surround, 
The  beam  that  now  seems  coiled  about  thy  head. 
Poor,  early  traveller,  may,  alas  !  be  found 
No  index  to  the  path  that  thou  must  tread. 

There,  in  thy  own  young  mornings  sunny  ray, 
Regardless  of  the  future  and  thy  fate, 
Thou'rt  peeping  merrily  (ut  upon  the  way, 
Through  the  bright  bars  of  youth's  half  open  gate. 

Thou  can'st  not  dream — so  innocent  thou  art — 
That  that  young  breast  may  be  an,  unheaved  sigh. 
Or  that  there's  now  shut  down  on  thy  young  heart, 
The  dim,  dark,  floodgates  of  a  wanderer's  eye. 


\    I 


CHILD  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HAIR.  219 

Child  of  the  golden  hair,  remember  this, — 
Wherever  gloom  falls  o'er  that  path  of  thine. 
There  thou  may'st  find  some  gems  of  hidden  bliss. 
For,  child,  thou  art  the  miner  and  the  mine. 

Remember,  should'st  thou  plume  thy  wings  for  flight. 
The  sounding  pinions  never  need  be  furl'd 
'Till  thou  hast  reach'd  that  Himalayan  height 
That  looks  sublimely  down  upon  the  world. 


220 


THE  SPECTRE. 


THE  SPECTRE. 

When  fn  i  puwv  '.s  lone  and  the  tempest   s  high, 
.'^nd  the  bengal  ^  '    rp  's  blown  out  in  the  sky  ; 
When  W/fh  v  ,^"'•1  t\   ■  .,:e  neither  near  nor  far 
Can  he  catch  a  ghnips;^  of  one  rushlight  star  ; 
When  he  feebly  tucks  round  his  withered  breast 
All  that  now  remains  of  his  threadbare  vest, 
And  turns  in  the  blast,  ere  he  sink  in  death, 
To  cough,  and  gasj^  for  a  moment's  breath, 
While  the  tattered  flag  of  his  thin,  white  hair 
Wildly  floats  o'er  the  staff  that  he  leans  on  there, 
Then,  Angel  of  Pity,  steal  behind. 
With  your  wing  spread  between  him  and  ihe  wind  ! 


NIGH7\ 


221 


NIGHT. 

When  on  dim  pinions  the  departing  day 
Droops,  like  an  angel  dying  in  the  West, 
With  the  red  glory  smitten  on  his  breast, 
Till  the  last  trembling  beam  has  pass'd  away. 

Then,  dost  thou  mount  thy  glitt'ring  throne,  oh  !  Night ! 
And  grasp  thy  shining  ball — the  orbed  moon ; 
Waxing  in  regal  splendor,  till  thy  noon 
Is  one  soft  blaze,  thou  ethiop  queen  of  light. 


The  moon  ! — What  gorgeous  robes  of  state  are  thine — 
The  jewell'd  ether  o'er  thy  shoulders  flung, 
And  burning  vesper  on  thy  forehead  hung, 
While  countless  gems  thy  raven  locks  entwine. 


And,  then,  the  palace  halls  thou  tread'st  below — 
Dell,  wood  and  glade  be-pearl'd  with  dewy  showers, 
As  though  the  heavens  were  toss'd  from,  airy  towers 
In  silvery  shot,  when  melted  in  thy  glow. 


222 


NIGHT. 


Dell,  wood  and  glade — thy  votaries'  hush'd  retreat 
When  flowery  carpets,  from  the  green  sward  spun 
By  the  long,  golden  fingers  of  the  sun. 
Sparkle  and  blush  beneath  their  dripping  feet. 

Thy  votaries — Ah,  but  who  shall  tell  of  these — 
Of  quiv'ring  soul  and  lip,  and  flashing  check 
As  if  the  very  life-blood  rush'd  to  speak 
When  the  tongue  swooned  in  blissful  agonies. 

Yes, — welded  lip  to  lip  in  love's  hot  blast 
And  souls  that  strike  the  eyes  into  a  blaze, 
And  flood  their  crystal  chambers  with  such  rays, 
That  blind  with  ecstasy  they  fail  at  last. 

Enchantress, — these  are  thine,  and  thine  alone — 
The  bright,  the  beautiful,  love's  holy  trance — 
All  win  a  rapture  from  thy  dreamy  glance. 
To  the  broad,  soulless  glare  of  day  unknown. 


i 


SONG  OF  THE  SALE. 


223 


SONG  OF  THE  SALE. 

Well  booted  and  spur'd  for  a  trip, 

A  bailiff  rode  forth  in  the  storm, 
Sunk  in  furs  and  in  pilot  cloth  up  to  his  lip. 
And  his  costly  cap  slouched  with  a  satisfied  dip 
While  his  huge  over-alls,  buttoned  up  to  his  hip, 

Kept  his  stout  legs  cosy  and  warm. 

His  horse,  plump  and  black  as  a  sloe, 
Shook  his  shining  mane  out  on  the  gale  ; 
And  with  nostrils,  like  patches  of  flame,  all  a-glow. 
Bore  him  gallantly  on  through  the  pitiless  snow. 
At  a  pace  far  from  poverty-stricken,  I  trow. 
As  he  sung  the  song  of  the  sale  : — 


•■'Going! — going!  ! — gone!  !  I 

The  bed  and  the  bedstead  and  all, 
Even  down  to  the  chair  the  poor  widow  sits  on. 
In  her  clean,  scanty  raiment  that  once  was  the  ton, 
With  her  sweet,  marble  face,  lonely,  tearful  and  wan, 
And  her  heavy  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall. 


;ii 


324 


SONG  OF  THE   SALE. 


"The  turf,  like  the  bed,  must  be  sold — 
Let  the  fire  be  pitched  out  in  the  snow — 
Though  the  mother  and  little  ones  perish  with  cold, 
The  respectable  absentee  must  have  his  gold  ; 
For  he  gambles  and  drinks  and  gives  dinners  untold, 
Like  "  a  jolly,  good  fellow,"  we  know. 


"What,  though  she  falls  down  in  a  swoon, 

With  a  cry  of  the  wildest  despair. 
When  she  sees  the  lov'd  cradle  and  tea-cup  and  spoon 
That  belonged  to  her  angel — God's  last,  frailest  boon, — 
Who  had  passed  like  a  bud  that  had  opened  too  soon. 

Knocked  down  to  some  purchaser  there  } 


"And  what  recks  it  to  me  or  to  you, 

If  the  scoundrel  's  the  vilest  of  men  ; 
Should  he  fail  to  the  tune  of  a  thousand  or  two, 
When  he  rings  from  his  victim  the  very  last  "sous  " 
He'll  quickly  get  "white-washed,"  till  spick  and  span 
new. 

He  begins  operations  again  ? 


SOAV  OF  TIfR  SALE. 

"Then  close  them,  I  say,  with  the  laws, 
Till  their  lon<,^  empty  j,nillets  are  crammed  ; 
For  the  wealthy  have  always  an  excellent  cause, 
And  need  never  be  hanging  their  beggarly  jaws, 
Or  be  craving  forever  with  bottomless  maws ; 
So,  the  poor  and  the  needy,  be  damned  !  " 


235 


226 


THE  SIX  HUNDRED, 


THK  SIX  HUNDRED. 


•'Take  the  guns,  Nolan  said." — Tennyson. 


I 


Take  the  guns,  Nolan  said — On  dashed  the  X\<g\\\.  Brirjadc  ! 

Look  to  it    Knghmd,  and  look   at  it  France  ; 

Through  the  tierce  havoc  of  shot,  shell  ar.d  shining  blade. 

Six  hundred  horsemen  now  boldly  advance. 

Six  hundred  brave  fellows  hard  holding  their  breath — ■ 

Six  hundred  that  ride  like  a  hunt,  into  death  ! 

As  they  rush  from  the  hill,  take  them  in  at  a  glance, 

And  mark  every  man  while  his  gallant  heart  burns. 

Oh !  count  the  Six  Hundred ! — Count,  England  !  Count, 

France  ! 
And  count  him  a  million,  that  ever  returns  ! 


J  HE   SL\   inWDKED. 


22-J 


Look,  down  throiijrh  the  glen  !— through  the  curst  tiery 

glen  I 
Look,  England,  as  from  the  dcej)  gorges  they  sally, 
The  Russians  are  pelting  your  six  hundred  men. 
With  dark,  iron  lightning  along  the  whole  valley  ! 
Six  hundred  to  cope  with  s«)  mighty  a  host  ! 
Six  hundred — a  handful — they  all  must  he  lost ! 
Help,  England  ! — They  don't  get  a  nioment  to  rally, 
Though  each  of  them  throws  up  a  breast- work  of  dead  ; 
Why  stand  you  there  keeping  the  terrriblo  tally  ? 
There's  no  help  in  the  ashes  you  strew  -)n  your  head. 

Oh  !  can  it  be  wondered. — C)h  I  can  it  be  wondered,. 
When  England  and  PVance  must  look  on  in  dismay, 
None  can  help   them  or  sunder   them  .' — I'hey  can't  be 

sundered  ! 
Though  their  sabres  and  lances  are  melting  away. 
Though  they're  fighting,  a  hundred  1 — a  thousand  to  one  I 
They  have  killed  every  gunner  that  stood  by  his  gun, 
But  they  can't  take  the  guns  in  so  wild  an  affray — 
The  wildest  affray  that  has  ever  yet  thundered  ! 
But  England  can  sob  out  through  all  her  dismay  : — 
If  Greece   has   her  Ihree — I   have   got  my  Six.  Hun- 
dred! 


.M 


*     J. 


228 


THE   SIX  JIUNDRED. 


Turn  away  from  the  glen — from  the  dark  fatal  glen  ! 
And  tell  you  can't  witness  so  murderous  a   stroke  ; 
For  the  doomed  Light  Brigade's  riding  back  once  again, 
But  a  few  wounded  men,  grim  with  blood  and    with 
smoke  ! — 

But  a  few  mangled  heroes  that  still  cannot  live, 

Till  they've    ridden,   once    more,   through  a  shot    and 

shell  sieve. 
Oh!  England,    they've    come  ! — though    wiili    anguish 

you  choke. 
Run  and  kiss  them,  and  grasp  where  their  hands  ought 

to  be  ; 
Antl  bear  up,  if  you  can,  for  though  fearful  the  stroke, 
It  has  won  a  ThermopyUe,  glorious  to  thee  ! 


■■*~*1 


NA  TIONAL    MUSIC. 


2Z() 


NATIONAL  MUSIC. 

In  mansions  buili  of  tlic  mt)uklering  bones 
Of  those  who  died  from  the  want  of  bread, 
The  g^reat  of  the  land,  blend  their  happy  tones 
As  their  festal  halls  they  gayly  tread. 

Grim  skulls  are  the  lamps  that  han^f  around  ; 
Their  oil  is  the  widow's  silent  tejir  ; 
And  the  dust  of  the  orphan  strews  the  ground 
That's  made  from  the  houseless  stranger's  bier. 

While  the  cup's  red  draught,  from  the  heart  is  trod, 
A  nation's  sighs  dim  tlie  jewel's  blaze, 
That  hangs  on  the  breast  of  some  noble  clod 
Who  reels  through  the  dance's  giddy  maze. 

But,  is  not  the  music  sad  and  wild .? 
It  falls  on  tlie  car  like  a  dying  shriek ; 
The  Alto's  sung  by  a  hungry  child. 
With  a  scalding  drop  on  his  pallid  cheek. 


!: 

I  '1 


230 


NATIONAL    MUSJC. 


And  the  Treble's  sobb'd  by  the  decent  poor 
Who  tried  to  conceal  their  hapless  fate, 
'Till  the  Landlord  drove  them  to  the  door, 
And  bared  to  the  world,  their  wretched  state. 

And  the  Tenor's  ra\'ed  in  a  mother's  pray'r, 
As  she  wildly  clings  to  her  starving  boy, 
While  angels  weep  o'er  the  ragged  pair 
Who  had  never  tasted  a  moment's  joy. 


And  the  Bass  is  an  old  man's  feeble  groan, 

Who  toils  here  below  with  sighs  and  tears, 

For  a  piece  of  a  coarse  brown  loaf,  alone, 

'i'hough  bow'd  with  the  weight  of  three-score  years. 

And  the  Chorls  bursts  in  wild  despair. 
From  the  bloodless  lips  of  a  countless  throng. 
While  a  heart-string  breaking  here  and  there, 
Beats  sullen  time,  to  the  mournful  song. 

But  the  dancers  still  move  gayly  by  ; 
Or  turn  to  the  helpless,  famish'd  band, 
To  ask  who  it  is,  that  dares  to  sigh 
When  he  sings  for  the  great  of  a  Chrislian  land. 


J'hk  fokbjddexV  fath. 


231 


THE  FORBIDDEN  PATH. 

Not  across  that  tield  of  clover  ! 

Not  across  that  field  I  say ; 
Don't  you  see  my  eyes  run  over? 

I  must  g-o  another  way. 

Child,  its  very  balm  would  kill  me  ; 

And  the  path  I  used  to  tread 
Woukl,  through  all  its  windin<rs,  fill  me 

With  the  presence  of  the  dead. 


Thoug-h  I'm  always  looking-  at  her 
^^'ith  the  far-light  on  her  brow, 

In  her  beauty,— but,  no  matter; 
Do  not  bring-  her  nearer  now. 

For  I  could  not  bear  the  gdadness 
That  would  then  around  me  beam  ; 

As  I  should  but  wake  to  madness, 
When  I  found  it  but  a  dream. 


232 


IMPROMPTU  ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  BUTTERFLY, 


IMPROMPTU  ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  BUTTERFLY. 

Frailest  of  all  earth's  lovely  things, 
Uncertain  wanderer  that  swings 
Upon  those  gaudy,  rose-leaf  wings 

In  yonder  sky. 
What  of  the  blight  that  Autumn  brings 

To  thee  by  and  bye  ? 

Half'helpless  in  the  summer  air. 

The  sport  of  wanton  breezes  there, 

How,  thoughtless  creature,  shalt  thou  bear 

The  ruthless  blast 
That,  with  the  chill  of  time  and  care. 

Strikes  thee  at  last  ? 

Flushed  gossamer,  thou  hast  thy  day — 
Thy  morn  and  noon  of  sunny  play  ; 
And,  sportive  creature,  tell  me,  pray, 

What  more  have  we  ? 
We  flutter,  too,  and  pass  away, 

Bright  thing,  like  thee. 


LJxVES. 


233 


LINES. 

If  thou  would'st  search  the  earth,  from  pole  to  pole, 

For  deepest  knowledge  of  the  human  soul, 

With  steady  hand  the  balance  you  must  hold, 

And  weigh  with  miser  eye  the  dross  and  gold. 

That  keen  perception,  that  gigantic  mintl 

That  opes  alone,  "  the  volume  of  mankind," 

Each  seeming  worthless  tittle   stoops  to  scan, 

Tis  oft  the  faithful  index  to  the  man. 

Mark, — he  who  would  deny  his  inward  lot, 

Must  struggle  to  appear  what  he  is  not, 

And  some  weak  effort  will  in  time  reveal, 

The  very  thing,  'twas  hoped  it  would  conceal. 

No  soul  on  earth,  howe'er  disguised  it  be, 

liut  in  some  trait,  shows  its  epitome, 

There  still  remains  a  vulnerable  part, 

A  vista  teeming  with  the  naked  heart, 

E'en  famish'd  nature  bursts  her  icy  chain 

Where  Arctic  snows,  hold  their  eternal  reign, 

To  own  a  germ  within  her  bosom  lies, 

That  would  have  bloomed  beneath  some  other  skies. 


I 


^34 


W  HERO  OI'  A  HUNDRED  FIGHTH. 


A  HERO  OF  A  HUNDRED  FIGHTS. 

On  a  rich  couch,  where  costly  tissues  fall 

From  curious  bars,  in  many  a  gorgeous  fold 

Lit  up  with  gleaming  threads  of  tinted  gold, 

In  splendid  mockery  of  his  funeral  pall. 

And  sweeping  the  bright  dyes  of  ancient  'Tyre 

That  seem  to  blaze  upon  the  marble  tloor. 

Lies  a  famed  Chief — his  vaunted  victories  oer — 

Who  revelled  life  away  in  blood  and  tire. 

But  feels — alas  too  late — war's  hellish  pulse  no  more. 

Watching  the  fearful  tellings  of  his  eye, 

In  anxious  whispering  groups  around  him  stand 

Warrior  and  prince — the  magnates  of  the  land. 

Waiting  to  see  the  aged  hero  die, 

Who  closed  and  grappled  hand  an.d  hand  Mith  death, 


A  HERO  OF  A  HUA'DKED  FIGHTS. 


'•Z':> 


So  oft,  on  many  a  glorious  battle  field, 
J". re  he  would  one  of  those  bright  laurels  yield  ; 
And  thus,  regardless  of  his  mortal  breath. 
Laughed  when  the  gloomy  tyrants  thunders  round  him 
pealed. 

He  heeds  them  not, — his  heart  is  with  the  past, 

Struggliiig  to  free  itself  from  seas  of  gore, 

Whose  clotted  waves  roll  over  it,  on   ^  more. — 

The  day  of  retribution's  come  at  last, 

In  answer  to  the  widow's  wild  "  Amen  !  " 

And  drags  him  on  from  reeking  plain  to  plain, 

Amid  the  spectre  armies  of  his  brain, 

'J'o  light  his  country's  battles  o'er  again 

And  purge  its  paltry  honor  from  some  fancied  stain. 


The  past  and  future  are  the  dungeon  walls 
That  close  upon  his  shuddering  spirit  now, 
And  set  their  rayless  seal  upon  his  brow 
That  turns  from  every  earthly  thing,  and  palls  : 
Yox  all  those  crimson  dyes  seem  tinged  with  blood, 
And  the  gold  threads  gleam  out  like  battle  tires. 
While  the  rich  perfume  that  the  East    expires 
Steals  o'er  their  bones,  who  once  beside  him  stood, 
And  fell,  as  bravely  fell  their  noble  hearted  sires  .' 


236 


A  HERO  OF  A  HUNDRED  FIGHTS. 


Death  loads  him  do  .vn  with  chains,  securely  press'd. 
His  clammy  arm  deals  its  last  dreamy  blow  ; 
And  yielding  up  its  sword  to  the  grim  foe, 
Falls  shivering  down  upon  his  laboring  breast. 
His  heartstrings  burst  with  a  convulsive  groan — 
To  the  [)oor  weeping  herd,  a  peaceful  sigh  !— 
Antl  prince  and  warrior  transported  fly 
'I'o  turn  him  into  monumental  stone, 
And  add  to  their  great  stock  another  marble  li"^. 


THE  srORM  STAR. 


^37 


THE  STORM  STAR. 


The  heavens  with  sudden  clouds  and  rain 

Were  dark  and  dismal  as  the  tomb  ; 

Though  sometimes,  in  a  feeble  stain, 

The  moon  oozed  through  the  deepening  gloom  ; 

The  thunders,  too,  began  to  boom 

And  swing  their  sledges  swift  and  high  ; 

And  swing  them  swifter,  swing  them  higher, 

And  smash  the  gates  that  shut  the  sky, 

And  dash  them  down  in  bars  of  fire. 


The  storms — the  mighty  storms  were  out, 
Tumbling  the  hills  into  the  dales, 
And  knocking  the  great  sea  about 
Far  up  the  heavens  in  smoky  gales  ; 
And  angry  rivers  swept  the  vales  ; 
And  forests  crashed  and  castles  fell ; 
And  rocks  came  tumbling  everywhere. 
And  hamlet  roofs,  from  out  the  dell, 
Like  scattered  rooks,  swept  through  the  air. 


23S  THE  STORM  STAR. 

'Twas  at  this  hour,  and  in  a  cave 

That  seemed  some  monster  gaping  wide, 

As  if  about  to  gulp  the  wave 

That  leaped  from  out  the  maddening  tide, 

And  foaming  lashed  .ts  rocky  hide, 

Between  its  savage  jaws  there  stood, 

'Mid  rows  of  huge  stalactite  teeth, 

A  figure  drenched  with  fire  or  blood 

That  streamed  out  o'er  the  gorge  beneath. 

»  ■ 

For  fire  and  blood  it  glowed,  in  turn  ; 
But  still  'twas  fire — fierce,  flameless  fire, 
Where  huge  flamingoes  seemed  to  burn 
And  not  the  driftwood  mounting  higher  . 
On  that  mysterious  midnight  pyre, 
Till  all  around,  above,  below, 
On  which  the  lurid  radiance  fell, 
Seemed  bathed  in  that  appalling  glow 
That  reddens  in  the  mouth  of  helL 


Spar  upon  spar  the  specter  threw 
In  frantic  haste  upon  the  pile. 
Till  off  to  sea  the  signal  flew, 
A  ci"imson  star,  for  many  a  mile  ; 


THE  STONM  SIAR. 


239 


Yet  meant,  perchance,  but  to  beguile 
Some  storm-tossed  sail  on  such  a  niijht, 
To  struggle  through  the  breaker's  roar, 
Still  hoping  in  that  faithless  light. 
Till  dashed  in  fragments  on  the  shore. 

But  gaze  upon  that  manly  form — 
That  noble  face  and  lofty  brow, 
And  say  if  he  would  aid  the  storm 
In  all  that  it  is  working  now, 
Or  lure  some  helpless,  hapless  prow, 
Till  on  that  wild  and  stormy  beach 
Her  shattered  bales  and  gold  lay  spread, 
Till  he — accursed  one — cc^uld  reach 
And  snatch  them  from  among  the  dead. 


But  no  !  that  fire  is  but  a  spark 
Of  one  that  all  his  soul  consumes  ; 
And  meant  to  guide  one  struggling  bark 
That  now,  he  fears  the  tempest  dooms ; 
For  as  the  ocean  louder  booms. 
He  shakes  with  anguish  and  affright ; 
And  feels  in  all  his  dire  dismay. 
It  can  not  live  through  such  a  night, 
Or  round  into  the  sullen  bay. 


240 


THE  STUKM  STAh\ 


That  bark,  if  now  'twere  on  the  deep, 
Had  left  at  eve  the  Fisher's  Isle, 
When  winds  and  waves  were  both  asleep, 
Beneath  the  early  moonbeam's  smile. 

And  one  fair  being  bore,  the  while 

The  Fisher-maiden  of  his  love. 
Who  ofttimes  stole  to  meet  him  there  ; 
He  knew  she'd  see  the  shining-  dove, 
And  knew,  alas  !  what  she  would  dare. 


Nor  should  that  beacon  fire  have  burned, 
Had  not  the  winds  been  lulled  to  rest, 
After  the  crimson  sun  was  urncd 
Within  one  dark  cloud  in  the  west — 
One  cloud  that  reared  its  awful  crest 
And  suddenly  seized  on  the  sky, 
And  blotted  out  the  world  below, 
And  bade  the  red-winged  lightnings  fly, 
And  bade  the  dark-winged  tempest  blow. 

But  now,  too  late  to  quench  that  flame, 
For  it  had  burned  an  hour  or  more 
Ere  down  the  storm  and  darkness  came 
To  sweep  away  that  lonely  shore, 
So  thus  he  seeks  its  beams  of  gore 


THE  STORM  STAR, 

To  throw  out  broader  on  the  sea, 
Tliat  they  may  touch  licr  failing  boat, 
If  oil  that  M'ild  immensity 
Perchance  it  yet  should  keep  atloat. 

Oh  !  dread  and  liorrible  retreat  ! 

The  green-backed  billows,  tinned  with  foam. 

Now  rush  up  to  his  very  feet, 

And  almost  make  the  cave  their  own, 

Shakinjj  with  thunder  its  red  dome, 

While  spars  and  masts  come  drifting  in, 

And  rest  upon  the  shelving  rock, 

Until  his  brain  begins  to  spin 

And  sink  beneath  the  deadly  shock. 


241 


Another  wave,  more  huge  and  dark, 

Now  rolls  in  on  the  rocky  floor  ; 

But,  heavens  !  it  bears  a  tiny  bark 

Still  bending  to  a  tiny  oar  ! 

Till  now  within  the  cavern  door, 

A  dripping  maiden  towards  him  sweeps 

In  all  her  pale,  dishevelled  charms, 

And  forward  with  a  low  cry  leaps, 

And  fainting,  falls  into  his  arms  1 


24-2 


TO  AN'  EMliALMED  IJUMMINiJ  BIRD, 


TO  AN  laiBALMED  HUMMING  BIRD. 


Why  look  so  sad  ?  The  sunbeam  'round  thee  flinii^s 
The  mellow  light  through  which  thou  once  didst  stray , 
Arouse  thee,  sleeper !  shake  th/  golden  wings; 
'\\\y  pathway  lies  along  its  glittering  ray  ; 
This  is  thy  own,  thy  native  evening  hour, 
Why  tarry,  traveller  of  the  closing  flower? 


Ah,  thou  wilt  sport  no  more,  when  twilight's  near, 

Through  all  those  glories  that  so(  m  fade  in  night; 

Nor  daws  begem  thee  o'er,  'till  thou  appear 

A  flying  fragment  of  embodied  light; 

Nor  balmy  aephyrs  ever  bear  along, 

The  hum  that  was  their  dazzling  playmate's  song. 


The  re-  ucss  moments  that  still  <Ver  thee  sweep, 
Still  spare  thee  in  this  endless  deep  repose, 
For   here  thou  art,  as  if  thou  wert  asleep, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  moonlit  rose  ; 
The  rainbow  hue  still  on  thy  plumage  lingers, 
Unsullied  by  decay's  dim,  dustj'  fingers. 


TO  A\  EMBALMED  JJUiMA/JAU-BJEV. 

But,  somethings,  though  in  all  this  splendor  drest, 
To  chase  that  pensive  gloom  is  wanting  still. 
A  heart  to  throb  within  that  tiny  breast, 
A  busy  eye  tiiat  speck  of  void  to  fill  ; 
For  oh  !  'tis  sad  to  see  such  beauty  wear 
That  silent,  moveless,  melanchoiy  air. 

The  artist's  hand  may  war  with  thee,  (),  death  ! 

And  gild  thy  terrors,  but  how  vain  the  strife 

'I'ill  he  can  conjure  back  the  fleeting  l)reath. 

And  'rouse  again  the  slumberir.g  pulse  of  life, 

Light  up  the  eye,  and  learn  the  mystic  art 

That  sends  the  life-blood  flashing  through  the  heart. 


?.43 


244 


THE  FRIMJ?OiiE. 


I 


Hi 


THE  PRIMROSE. 

The  first  pale  primrose,  like  a  fallen  star, 
Unheeded  lay  within  a  grassy  dell, 
Till  bright  Aurora  from  her  beaming  car, 
Threw  o'er  the  dewy  gem  her  golden  spell. 


By  chance,  a  maiden  slumbVing  in  the  vale, 
With  balmy  lips  unconscious  touched  it  then, 
And  on  it  poured  so  exquisite  a  gale, 
The  fragrance  never  left  its  leaves  again. 


And  thus,  'tis  whispered,  from  that  very  hour, 
Whene'er  the  woodland  blossoms  fade  in  death, 
The  hue  and  odor  of  this  gentle  flower 
Return  to  sunshine  and  a  maiden's  breath. 


-~> 


BURIED  FL  O  t^VERS. 


2r5 


BURIED  FLOWERS. 

I-v  that  brown  husk  that  by  the  wayside  lies, 
The  sport  of  biting  winds  and  bitter  showers, 

Are  folded  up  a  thousand  beamless  dyes 

That  yet  shall  Hash  amid  the  realm  of  Howers. 

And  ofttimes  thus,  from  lessening  day  to  day, 
We  meet,  while  traveling  onward  to  the  tomb, 

Some  poor,  lone,  human  husk  upon  the  way, 
That's  filled,  to  bursting,  with  eternal  bloom. 


246 


CLOUDS. 


CLOUDS. 

Sweet  hollows  in  the  ripple  of  God's  smile, 

Where  His  deep  alchemy  forever  dwells, 

Mappinj^  out  all  that's  beautiful,  the  while. 

In  soft  delicious  dews,  and  showery  spells 

That  lie  in  silver  un  the  heather  bells 

That  spread,  like  plum-bloom,  o'er  the  mountain  heij^ht, 

And  sky  it  over  with  dim,  purple  light. 

How  often  in  the  sultry  summer  hours, 

Has  languid  Nature  crept  beneath  your  tent 

So  cool  and  lovingly  above  her  bent, 

'Till,  in  a  sunny  dance  of  crystal  showers, 

The  aerial  cano])y  was  gayly  rent, 

And  downwards  on  her  grateful  breast  was  poured 

The  balm  that  all  her  energies  restored. 


"  MISS  NIGHTINGALE.''' 


247 


''MISS  NIGHTINGALE." 

UNDER   FANCIFUL   TREATMENT.  * 

Where  the  waves  oftheEuxine  but  bend  a  mere  stream, 
Miss  Nightingale  sits  by  them  all  the  night  long  ; 

And  the  poor  wounded  soldier  oft  thinks  it  a  dream, 
As  she  tends  him  and  lulls  him  to  sleep  with  her  song, 

The  soft  touch  of  her  hand  he  can  never  forget ; 

But  oft  when  at  home  at  the  close  of  the  year, 
He'll  think  that  Miss  Nightingale  sings  for  him  yet, 

And  before  her  bright  image,   in  dreams,  bend  him 
here. 

Mid  the  heroes  that  perished  beside  that  dark  wave, 
What  thousands   were  rescued   while  yet  their  eyes 
shone  ; 

For  a  balm  was  distilled  from  her  presence,  that  gave 
A  fresh  tint  to  their  cheek,  when  its  color  was  gone. 

And  the  sailor  and  soldier,  till  memory  dies. 
Shall  breath  of  that  vision  through  every  year  ; 

And,  as  bright  to  his  soul  as  she  was  to  his  eyes, 
At  the  sound  of  her  sanctified  name  bend  him  here. 

*  Vcrd.   Sap. 


248 


UP  IN  THE  MORN. 


UP  IN  THE  MORN. 


Through  the  woods  !     Throuy^h  the  woods  !     Up  in  the 

morn, 
To  the  bay  of  the  hound,  and  the  clang  of  the  horn 
Come,  'rouse  thee  and  slip  from  the  leash  the  loud  pack 
Till  they  burst  in  full  cry  on  the  deer's  subtle  track. 


No  delicate  pallor  shall  spread  o'er  thy  face, 
But  the  manly — the  berry-brown  tinge  of  the  chase  ; 
For  the  tint  of  thy  cheek,  and  the  light  of  thine  eye. 
Shall  be  caught  from   the  winds,  and  be   caught  from 
the  sky. 


Far  over  the  mountains,  and  down  through  the  vales, 
Where  the  rivers  are  rippled  by  shallows  and  gales. 
And  the  crimson-flecked  trout  in  the  shining  waves  lie, 
'Till  betrayed  from  their  depths  by  the  false,  fatal  fly. 


UP  IJV  THE  MORN. 


249 


There,  there  shalt  thou  roam  at  the  first  peep  of  dawn, 
With  the  strength  of  a  lion  and  step  of  a  fawn  ; 
And  the  smooth,  silken  h'ne  swiftly  spin  from  the  reel. 
When  the  shining  prey's  struck   with  that  fly's  sting  of 
steel. 


Through  the  woods!     Through  the  vales  !— Up  in  the 
morn. 

When  the  daybreak  of  purple-edged  sunbeams  is  born 
When  the  earth  flashes  forth  its  first  emerakl  hue, 
In  a  myriad  bright  beams  that  are  prismed  in  dew. 

Then  shall  beauty,  and  vigor,  and  pleasure  be  thine, 
With  a  lightness  of  heart  that  is  almost  divine  ; 
And  thy  life's  happy  history  be  that  of  a  sage, 
With  a  sunbeam  to  fall  on  its  very  last  pa^re. 


Vi  '\ 


250 


THE  KERRY  GIRL. 


THE  KERRY  GIRL. 

Smiling  brightly  till  her  teeth  of  pearl 
Burst  the  dewy  rose-bud  of  her  lips, 

See  how  yonder  blooraing  Kerry  girl  ■    ■ 

O'er  the  crystal  streamlet  gayly  trips. 

Hark,  how  loudly  now  her  laugh  is  ringing, 
While  her  bounding  steps  become  more  fleet  j 

Till,  at  last,  half  startled  she  is  flinging 
Showers  of  liquid  diamonds  from  her  feet. 

Softly  now  the  flowery  bank  she  presses, 
With  her  lovely  features  in  a  blaze, 

For  the  snood  that  bound  her  raven  tresses. 
Has  let  them  fall  in  one  bewitching  maze. 


THE  KERRY  GIRL. 

But  quickly  o'er  the  sparkling  mirrored  waters, 

Rippling  in  their  beauty  through  the  glen, 
See  her  bend  like  one  of  Eve's  own  daughters, 
.  Binding  the  bright  treasure  up  again. 


»5i 


Oh,  parting  sunbeams,  from  the  brooklet,  never 
Let  this  wondrous  vision  (Usappear  ; 

But  frame  it  in  these  silvery  waves  forever, 
And  I  will  live  and  die  a  pilgrim  here. 


!lli 


jiji 
illR' 


i 


252 


FISHERMAN'S  SONG. 


FISHERMAN'S  SONG. 

When  morning  builds  a  jewelled  heap 
Of  sands  and  sea-shells  on  the  shore, 

We  brothers  of  the  purple  deep, 

Aroused  from  sleep, 

Bend  to  the  silver-dripping  oar. 

* 

And  to  our  joyous  matin  song 
That  echoes  answer  far  and  wide, 

A  living  and  a  shadowed  throng 

We  sweep  along, 

In  double  glory  o'er  the  tide, 

Till  gathering  up  each  netted  fold 
In  which  our  shining  treasure  lies. 

We  seem  to  draw  from  depths  untold 

A  web  of  gold. 

Shot  with  a  thousand  brilliant  dyes. 


And  thus  ^vhile  glitlc  the  hours  away, 
We  gayly  heap  the  sunny  spoils 

That  flashed  throughout  the  livelong  day, 

As  though  there  lay 

A  tangled  rainbow  in  our  toils. 

Till  buried  in  his  crimson  urn, 

The  sun  proclaims  our  labors  o'er, 

And  joyously  our  eyes  we  turn 

To  those  that  burn 

Beside  our  far-off  cottage  door. 


25j 


J 


:i ' 


s 


«54 


LIFE'S  TURNPIKE   GATE, 


LIFE'S  TURNPIKE  GATE. 

I've  travelled  clown  this  weary,  broken  track — 
This  heartless  vista  swept  by  the  lone  wind — 

And  here  1  jniuse  a  moment  to  look  back 

On  all  the  windows  that  lie  quenched  behind  ; 

And  gazing  thus,  I  weeping  seek  in  vain 

My  early  frost-work  on  one  single  pane. 

Alas  !  the  music  of  each  turnpike  gate — 

That  once  so  joyously  swung  out  my  years — 

With  jarring  hinge,  too  soon  began  to  grate 
On  every  nerve,  and  on  those  once  glad  cars. 

And  grate  so  harshly  that  no  other  sound 

Now  's  heard  between  its  opening  and  rebound. 

When  shall  the  last  ope  on  my  tottering  way — 
That  way  of  blighted  buds  and  darkened  flowers? 

My  eyes  have  long  been  groping  for  the  day, 
Or  inward  gazing  on  those  happy  hours 

'Mid  which  she  stood  ! — the  angel  of  my  soul — 

And  brightened,  with  her  life  and  love,  the  whole  ! 


LIAS'S  TUKXriK'E  GATF, 


255 


But,  hark  !— what  sounds  !— and  what  celestial  light  I 

The  last  gate  !— rolling  back  with  golden  bars  I 
And  see  .'—what  bursts  upon  my  new-born  sight  1 

An  angel  !— waiting  there,  hung  round  with  stars  I 
The  hinge  once  more  pours  forth  his  harmony  I 
The  angel  joins  I— Oh  I  heavens  1  tis  she  !  tis  she  I 


fr' 


ig 


256 


yy/ii   CON  VOL  i  -ul  us. 


THE  CONVOLVULUS. 

Bright  and  beautiful  star  of  the  day-break  of  flowers, 
How  serenely  thy  glory  steals  forth  while  we  sleep  ;- 
And  how  oft,  from  the  tint  of  the  first  purple  hours, — 
Do  we  fancy  their  beams  from  thy  dewy  bell  creep. 

But  at  noon,  when  we  seek  for  that  exquisite  glow, 
All  thy  delicate  petals  are  then  folded  up  ; 
But  we  break  not  the  spell  by  a  touch,  for  we  know 
That  some  spirit  of  dawn  lies  concealed  in  the  cup. 


TURKISH  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 


257 


TURKISH  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

On  the  wild,  shaded  banks  of  the  Tamour  there  grew 
A  young  lily  whose  cup  was  o'erflowing  with  dew, 
When  a  bulbul  once  stole,  after  sunset,  and  drained 
The  pure  chalice  of  all  the  bright  drops  it  contained. 


vers, 
3cp  ;— 
rs,— 
ep. 

w, 

ow 
p. 


And  the  beautiful  flower  that  so  often  was  chilled 
By  the  glittering  flood  that  its  bosom  had  filled, 
Felt  an  exquisite  pang  when  the  wing  of  the  bird 
Through    its    tremulous    leaves    like  a   summer   wind 
stirred. 

And  each  evening  the  reveller  afterwards  ca    e. 
When  he  found  the  cup  full  and  th    nectar  the  same, 
And  still  drank  of  its  depths  from  a  sheltering  thorn, 
Singing  over  his  bright  little  goblet  till  morn. 


But  the  lily  that  once  by  the  Tamyris  grew. 

And  the  bulbul  that  drank  from  its  chalice  of  dew, 

Now  no  more  by  those  bright  jt^iancing   waters   love 


on  ; — 


The  chalice  is  broken  ! — the  bulbul  is  gone  I 


:f^ 


iliiin 


258 


LINES. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    AT    PETERBOROUGH,     CANADA,    APRIL,    1 859, 

Has  the  frost  that  Time  cunningly  strews  through  my 

hair. 
Or  the  shadow  that  Age  seeks  to  throw  o'er  my  eye, 
Made  these  scenes  of  my  youth  seem  less  happy  and  fair 
Than  they  looked  in  the  days  now  forever  gone  by  ? 

There's  no  solitude  here  !  All  is  bustle  and  strife 
In  pursuit  of  that  weary  philosopher's  stone  ; 
And  my  old  shaded  haunts  pant  with  clamorous  life, 
I'hough  they  once  moved  to  song  and  soft  whispers 
alone. 


Give   me    back  the   "pine  bushes,"  so  changelet     in 

bloom, 
Where  the  robin  sang  loud  to  his  sober-hued  love. 
And  the  sweet-scented  resin  breathed  forth  its  perfume 
Till  I  fancied  huge  censers  were  swung  through  the 

grove. 


LINES. 


259 


Though  the  voice  of  the  river  is  heard  by  me  still, 
Yet  it  seems  but  to  moan  a  sad  tale  in  my  ear, 
And  I  think  'tis  a  death-watch  that  ticks  in  the  mill, 
For  the  quick,  joyous  clack  that  once  came  out  so  clear. 

But  the  bitter  tears  turn  this  pale  check  to  a  rill, 

As  I  haste  from  one  spot  that  I  cannot  endure, 

Near  the  crumbhng  log  school-house  and  church  on  the 

hill, 
Where   I   oftentimes   knelt  when   my  heart  was  more 

pure  ; 

When  the  stars  that  beamed  down  through  that  once 

joyous  tide 
Lit  it  up  with  a  grateful  and  rapturous  glow  : 
But  alas  !   where  they  now  through  its  cold  waters  glide 
To  be  quenched  in  the  darkness  that's  lurking  below. 


All  is  changed  !     E'en  the  leaves  seem  but  trembling  to 

fall 
While  the  bird's   mellow    song    sounds    complainingly 

sweet, 

But  the  saddest — the  most  agonizing  of  all. 

Is  the  throng  of  strange  faces  I  pass  in  the  street  I 


I 


26o 


TRUTH 


TRUTH. 


With  the  thews  of  an  angry  Hon  strung^ 

On  a  mammoth's  bones  that  the  earth  stag-gers  under  ; 

With  an  ^^tna  for  each  hiboring  hmg, 

And  a  voice  that  out-thunders  tenfold  thunder  ; 


With  an  eye  in  whose  blaze  the  sun  might  die, 
And  a  brow  striking  mortals  dumb  with  terror, 
Anil  a  foot  like  a  mountain,  poised  on  high 
Oe'r  the  neck  of  the  sovereign  monster,  Error, — 


Thus  I'll  stalk  through  the  midst  of  your  mighty  kings, 
While  their  joints  and  their  regal  bawbles  rattle, 
And  roar  out  the  list  of  accursed  things 
They  have  done  to  their  herds  of  human  cattle. 


TRUTH. 


261 


And  I'll  tell  to  the  sordid  scepter'd  cheats, 

Withtheirblood-stain'd  hands  and  their  hoards  of  plunder, 
They  may  yet  be  dragg'd  througfh  the  common  streets, 
By  the  slaves  they  so  long  have  trodden  under. 

And  I'll  tell  of  the  great  and  the  rich  and  the  proud 
In  their  costly  robes  upon  eider  sleeping, 
While  the  poor  man  lies  in  the  ragged  shroud 
That's  to  wrap  his  corse  when  he's  not  worth  keeping. 

And  I'll  tell  of  the  gorgeous  web  they  wear, 
That  its  crimson  woof  and  its  warp  of  pearl 
Are  but  gilded  strings  that  the  masters  tear 
From  the  broken  heart  of  the  Factory  girl. 


And  I'll  tell  of  the  mine  and  the  lives  that  pass 
Down  where  time  never  spreads  a  sunlit  pinion, 
But  the  weary  coal  dust  sinks  in  his  glass, 
Till  they  all  are  swept  from  its  dark  dominion. 

But  what  shall  I  tell  of  the  sterling  man, 

Whether  peasant  or  prince,  wlio   is  ^rue  to   his  brother, 

^\■lu)  checrfullv  do^s  all  the  good  that  he  can, 

Willi  a  heart  that  unconsciouy'y  feels  lor  another? 


r^'* 


'■  ^ 


r 


262 


TRUTH. 


To  him,  with  a  seraph's  tongue,  I'll  say, 
Push  bravely  on  in  the  way  you're  going, 
Till  your  locks  are  bright  with  a  glorious  gray, 
And  your  measure  of  life  is  overflowing, 

And  when,  at  the  close  of  your  proud  career. 
You  are  just  on  the  verge  of  the  grave  reclining, 
You'll  find  yourself  robed  for  a  happier  sphere, 
With  a  passport  that  needs  no  countersigning. 


'( 


A7-:c/:iA'! 


263 


NI'-CTARI 

I'll  not  batlic  in  the  deep,  red  i^nilf  of  tl)o  cuj), 

Where  l)ill()\vs  of  sunset  roll, 
And  the  sparkling'-  diamonds  that  bubble  uj), 

Break  in  foam  on  the  ljuniin,y  soul. 

I'll  not  (hvc  far  down  throujdi  the  manlliiiL,''  llood 

'rill  I  reach  the  sih'er)-  plain. 
While  the  ruby  raplur','  blends  ^vilh  my  blood 

Anil  flashes  in  lire  to  ni\'  brain. 


u 


But  a  nectar  far  nioi'e  ili\ine  I'll  sip 
Than  that  which  I'd  (piaff  beneath, 

From  a  cup  whose  brin\  is  a  rosy  lip. 
And  wdiose  foam  is  pearl)-  teelh  : 


1  t 


Where  the  wine  that  entrances  all  mv  powers, 
I'ill  1.  trend)linL,^  no  more  can  bear. 

Is  the  dew  tliat  nursed  by  those  ^enis  and  llowers. 
Lies  in  h'juid  sunbeams  there. 


¥>'• 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


THE  RAPK  OF  TJIALJA. 


267 


TIIK  RAI'K  OF  TirArJA. 

Ham.-  the  •^'■ods  and  Saiiil  I'alrick  wa-iv  "olT  for  llio  (jay." 
And  i1k-  wit  and  the  wine  had  hi'L^nin  to  nni  hi^i,di, 

When  they  suddeidy  heard,   \,-ilh  a  h.ok  of  (h'sniay, 
From  the  lieig-lits  of  Olynipi.s  old  lui.iter  ery  ; 

"IIo!    to  arms!       Horse  and   loot!      Man  the    walls! 
Close  the  i^ates  ! 
Seize  the  .Muses,  whatever  tlie  jades  an-  al)()nt, 
And  stiek  them  in  limlio,  despite  of  tlic  l-'ates, 

For  there's   treason   amon^-  Ihem,    and    I'll    stamj)  it 
out  !  " 


It  now  beeame  eertain.  from  all  that  w;  s  known, 

That   what   eaused   the   red   clouds   and  so   fearful   a 
racket. 
Was  a  charg-ejust  i)referreil,  at  tlie  foot  of  the  throne, 
I5y    three    wl,„-ious    Celestials,    J'ayne,    Forrest,    and 
llackett. 


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268 


THE  KAPE  OF  THALIA. 


It  set  forth  that  Thalia  had  wantonly  dared 
To  treat  them  as  if  they  were  natives  of  Zama, 

Having  turned  up  her  nose  and  quite  coolly  declared, 
That  she  would  not  inspire  the  "American  drama." 


When  Jupiter  read  it,  he — trembling  with  ire — 

Snapt  his  teeth,  just  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  beagle, 

And  exclaimed,  "What  I  the  hussy  1  refuse  to  inspire 
The  people  to  whom  I  have  lent  my  best  eagle  I " 


"  Hu,  out  there  I     Let  Tantalus  have  some  salt  cod  I 
ril  punish  all  rebels ;  that  you  may  rely  on, 

Let  Sisyphus  carry  that  stone  in  a  hod  1 

And  let  somebody  rock-oil  the  wheel  of  Ixion. 


But  the  word  from  Olympus  had  come  down  too  late ; 
For  an  old  warder's  wife  said  her  husband  had  told 
her 
That  a  few  nights  before,  there  s^ipped  out  of  his  gate 
A  strange  wight  with  a  long,  lively  bag  on  his  shoul- 
der! 


THE  RAPE  OF  THALIA.  269 

When  this  became  known  it  increased  the  uproar, 
And  multitudes  after  the  kidnapper  sped  ; 

But  soon  all,  save  Hermes,  came  back  once  more, 
With  a  nun  csl  inventus  !  and  shake  of  the  head. 


But  he,  like  the  rest,  now  returned  home  again, 
Sa<l  and  musin<;^  at  each  weary  step  that  he  took, 

Till  before  the  dread  "  father  of  sjfods  and  of  men  " 
He  apjieared  with  a  terribly  woe-begonc  look  ! 


"  Have  you  got  her? "  said  Jupiter,  still  all  on  fire, 
"  Or  the  blackguard  that  carried  her  off  in  the  sack  ? '' 

"  I  have  seen  her  !  "  said  Hermes,  "have  seen  her,  dread 
sire  ! 
But,  alas  I  she  refuses,  point  blank,  to  come  back." 


"  And  where  .''  "  cried  his  majesty,  looking  fpiite  wild, 
"Tell   me,    where.'  'till    I  pelt  tliem    with   lightning 
and  thunder  I 
Speak!  you  vagabond;  .s])eak  !      Don't  you  know  she's 
my  child.' 
No  time  must  be  lost  I     We  must  trar  them  asunder." 


;|  j 

A 


270 


THE  RAPE  OF  THALIA. 


"Sire,  I've  travelled,"  said  Hermes,  "both  faithful  and 
fast, 

And  have  soujjht  my  half-sister  from  Pckin  to  Cork, 
And  where  do  yt)u  think  that  I  found  her  at  last  ? 

With  a  fellow  called  Foy;arty,  down  in  New  York  ;" 

"  Ho  !  s;id(lle  a  thunderbolt,  Mercury,  I  say  ! 

"Fis  swifter  than  wins^ed  cap  or  sandal,  and  touj^her, 
And  seek  for  Thalia,  ami  bear  her  this  way. 

And  if  she  cuts  up  any  diilos,  handcuff  her." 

Now  when  Jupiter  nods,  gods,  in  S(]uatls,   bound  whole 
rods. 

And  so  Hermes  flew  off  with  some  ten  or  eleven  ; 
But  ere  noon  he  came  back,  not  so  spry,  by  long  odds, 

For  'Fhidia  was  not  to  be  coaxed  back  to  heaven  I 


And,  besitlcs,  those  who  should  ha\'e  reported  the  case, 

Her  eight  lo\  ing  sisters,  deelnrecl,  with  a  scoff. 
That  they  scarcely  could  tell   when  they  last  saw  her 
face, 
Th(^ugh,    just   now,  they  believed  some  one    carried 
her  off  1 


THE  RAPE  OE  THAI.IA. 


271 


It  was  now  that  the  sliout  and  fiorcc  liirht  111  led  the  sky, 
Which    the    rev'lers,   though    treadinj^    their    roseate 
nui/x's, 
Knew  was  Jupiter's  voice,  anti  the  glare  of  his  eye, 
And  that  something  had  set  the  *'old  man"  mad  as 
blazes  ! 


So  they  all  in  an  instant  sprang  clean  to  their  feet — 
Save    Saint    Patrick,    who  just    had    reitlenished    his 
cup — 

And  taking  a  funny  bee-line  to  tlie  street. 

They,  atonje,  in  amazement,  found  out  what  was  up. 

Soon  the  warders  were  perched  on  the  outermost  walls 
Among  blue-winged  })olice  that  were  ripe  for  a  job  ; 

While  the  frightened  llesperides  tied  from  their  stalls, 
And  left  all  their  a])ples  a  prey  to  the  mob  ! 


Doors  were  bolted,  and  shutters  were  quickly  put  n]i. 
While  some,  who  had  heard  not  the  summons  aright, 

lieing  aware  that  Saint  Patrick  was  •'taking  a  sup," 
Just  believed  it  was  "oidy  a  bit  of  a  fight." 


272 


THE  RAPE  OF  THALIA. 


II  : 


Now,  when  Jupiter  heard  what  was  said  by  )iis  son, 
He  sprang  into  the  air  forty  lect  oft'  his  throne  ; 

And  forg'ettin^  his  chiuj^liter  and  all  she  had  <h)ne, 
Gave  himself  up  to  one  consternation  alone. 

Widi  a  terrible  roar  and  a  stri«"v'  of  ten  yards, 

"What?"  he  c.ied,    while  the  skies   with   his  lij^dit- 
nings  were  riven  ; 

"  Down  to  Tartarus  sweep  all  the  warders  and  jj^uanls  ! 
What,  in  thunder ! — an  Irishman  let  into  heaven  ! 


NOT 


MAl.-DE-MKK! 


^n 


NOT   "MAL-1)K-MER  !  " 

On  his  ri'ccMit  home-ward  voya^'i-  from  Kiiiilaiid,  Dr.  ( )livir  WVinlill 
Iloliufs,  the  iAxwows  littirtiliiir  und  siit-iitist,  sutllrid  seviTi-Iy  from 
nuildc-mcr^  or  st-a-sickiicss. — Moruiiii:;  l\ipir. 

ORKKTINC. 

CoMK,  clever,  quaint  and  curious  Master  lUill, 

Vou  owe  us  one  ! — F-ook  to  y()nr  laurels,  sir! 

We're  cunnin<^  dogs,  and  nuist  be  i»aid  in  lull, 
Send  us  a  Roland  for  our  Oliver  ! 

The  keel  that  our  Promethean  envoy  hore 

To  your  fair  land  across  the  western  niaiti, 

Has  run  an  "  ocean  lane"  from  shore  to  shore 
That  never,  never  thould  be  closed  a<aun. 

Let  not  your  champion  falter  if  he  hears 

That  our  tough  customer,   who  had  been  met 

On  the  Athiiitic,  Mon/h/v — aye,  for  years — 
Wcis,  at  long-  last,  by  innl-dc-mer  upset. 

'Tis  false  !  The  angry  ocean's  wildest  swoop 
Had  failed  to  stretch  hin\  on  his  cabin  floor  ; 

He  never  lost  his  temper,  legs,  or  soup  ; 

He  was  a  little  Holmes  sick — nothintr  more  ! 


m 


KITTY  CLAKE. 


Kll  TV  CLARK. 

Whin  those  dark  eij^htoon-poundcrs  of  yours,  Kitty  Clare — 
So  relintlcssly  blazin'  away  at  nic  there — 
Melt  in  rapturous  tears  to  the  low  j^ushiu'  tone 
Of  your  first    lullaby,  whin  you're  sailed  alone 
Wid  a  brij^ht  little  downy-eheeked  sthranj^erthat  tipples, 
Wid  his  soft  rosy  lips,  at  your  sthrawberry  nipples. 
All  so  smothered  in  crame  of  their  own  for  his  sake, 
Blur  alive  I  what  a  bcwtiful  picther  you'll  make  ! 

And,  besides,  you  can  tachchim  so  nate,  your  own  way  ; 
From  your  hair  and  your  eyes  he  can  larn  nij^ht  and  day, 
And  find  roses  antl  pearls  in  your  teeth  and  your  lips, 
And  the  purest  of  snow  at  the  fountain  he  sips. 
While  its  music's  own  self  he'll  l)e  larnin,  galore. 
Whin  he  hears  that  sweet  voice  of  yours,  Kitty  asthore: 
And  whine'er  you  lane  o'er  him,  asleep  or  awake. 
Blur  alive  !  what  a  bewtiful  picther  you'll  make  ! 


/MJ'A'OMJ'/l 


275 


nirRoMiTU. 

On  Mario,  (In-  crleliratrd  ^iiij^iT  ilii. hiring;  hU  iiilriiticm  <if  ^,'oiiijr  to 
tlu- (riiiifa,  to  figlit  uiidvr  tlu;  baiuicr  ol  Viitor  I'.nimaiiucl,  King  of 
Sardinia. 

What,  now? — Sit^Nior 'IVnoiv,  wliat's  the  niattt-'r  ? 
Wn\,  whom  wi'  used  to  fc-te  and  k-i^iX  ami  flatter, 
Now  j^oino-  to  rol)  us  of  our  purest  pleasures  ; 
Vou,  who  liave  been  so  loui^  oiu"  cars  delio-hting" 

With  your  Andante  and  Allc^-ro  measures, 
And  g-amhols  throuj^h  the  nukh  astonislied  gamut. 
Come,  tell  us.  have  you  lost  your  senses — danui  it! 

It's  some  new  i)iece  we  ^\■ant  and  not  your  li<ditinf. 


In  spite  of  Franee.  \'ictoria  or  I'lmmanucl, 

Or  all  the  rest,  the  Kuss,  may  ehanee  to  tan  you  well. 

A  rolling  fire  is  not  your  proper  role  : 

Your  troupe,  Signor,  should  never  l)e  at  war, 

■  Nor  be  a  Irooji  of  horse  ;  and,  "pon  my  soul, 
Our  Cantatrices  sha'n'l  l)e  C'antinieres, 
Or  if  in  love  with  military  airs, 

They  shall  not  take  them  from  "  Jltoil  •  du  Nord," 


2y6 


IMPKOMPTU. 


And,  then,  suppose,  for  instance,  that  a  bullet 
ShouUl  even  graze  your  thorax  or  your  j^ullet, 
Vou  might,  forever  afterwards,  be  wheezy  ; 
And  when  Sardinia  was  to  peace  restored, 

And  you  unto  the  arms  of  Giulia  (Jrisi, 
I  can  assure  you,  you'd  look  very  droll, 
With  all  your  honors  at  your  button  hole. 

To  find  '^  come  gt'nUr  was  not  encored. 

Or  when  yon  met  the  "Rounds  "  at  night,  111  wager 
If  "  who  goes  there?  "  was  sung  out,  in  ()  major, 
You'd  lose  yourself,  and  (piite  forget  the  word  ; 
And  if  there  followed,   "stranger,  (juickly  tell," 
You'd  answer,  in  a  fine  sonorous  third. 
With  such  a  glorious  run  and  mellow  roar 
As  fine,  old  Br-Jiliam  gave  in  days  of  yore, 
"Above,  be-c-c-low,  good-night,  all's  well." 

Although  her  faith  to  you  may  never  waver, 
This  crotchet  must  make  Donna  (iiulia  <juavcr — 
To  see  you  madly  rushing  into  Russia, 
Where  all  the  armies  of  the  mighty  Czar — ■ 
Or  some  of  them,  at  least, — are  sure  to  crush  you  : 
And  just  because,  you  who  have  shone  so  long 
In  one  bright  sphere,  the  Lucifer  of  song. 
Should  fancy  to  become  a  shooting  star. 


i 


\v 


)r. 


ij,^cr 


iMpROMrrr 


277 


stay  where  the  tenor  of  your  way  is  bkvst  ; 
The  Opera  suits  your  operations  best, 
What  do  you  eare  lor  a  small  country  Kinjr? 


t)U  H 


ho  have  rol)l)e(I  the  critics  of  their  si)leen 


Vou  who  have  made  tlie  pit  and  1 


)oxes  rm<r 


The  ( 


C>   ) 


n 


inea  you  wouhl  find  in  such  a  state. 


That  youM  cry  mca  culpa,  when  too  hite, 
I.ike  tliat  okl,  titled  noodle,  Aberdd 


een. 


)U 


27i5 


J>AA7i.\.//V, 


SKKKXADK. 


All  I  thin,  come  lo  Iho  windy,  my  own  Ti-j^^Lcy  ( lormaii  ; 

"rhoui^'li    it's    late,    Mire    ynn   know   its   your  'laily, 
astliore. 
I'ul  yo  ir  lii»s  to  the  s^dass  till  you  fmtl  it  is  warmin', 

And  I'll  thry  the  outsiile,  tiiouj^di  its  iVozen  al)  o'er. 


Sure,  you  needn't  be  shy.  i"or  you  know  I  adore  you, 
And  am  now  on  my  way  to  my  eot  in  the  i^din. 

And  hut  called  for  tt>  make  a  short  station  hefore  you, 
''I'ill  I'm  ahle,  ma\'ourneen.  to  see  \-ou  auin. 


Oh  !  iifood-inL,dit  !    tor    the    i)ane"s    almost    meltin',    my 
darlin', 
Oh  !  y;-ood-nii;ht  !  lor  I'm  I'aint  ;   Iml  ti>  sthrinthen  my 
narvcs, 
I'll  just  call  on  my  way  and  see  ould  Paddy  Carlin, 
And  <ri\'c  his  son  'I'om  what  I  think  he  desarvcs. 


BIDDY  MA<Ji'IKE, 


a  79 


BIDDY  MAGUIRE. 

Now,  I  don't  care  for  murther  as  lonjif  as  it's  fair ; 
But  the  way  that  I'm  slaughtered  s  a  sin  and  a  shame  ; 
For  I'm  sthrangled  all  day  wid  a  rope  of  black  hair, 
And  I'm  roasted  all  night  before  lips  hot  as  flame. 


vou. 


And  I'm  riddled  wid  eyes  that  are  rale  shootin'  stars, 
And  that  wing  me  regardless  of  time  or  of  i)lace  ; 
While  my  poor, broken  heart  isdhragged  out  tiirough  its 

bars, 
]iy  a  set  of  white  teeth,  and  shook  clane  in  my  face. 


But  the  divil  a  sthroke  can  I  give  in  return, 
I'm  so  wake  and  so  dizzy  whene'er  I  go  nigh  her ; 
So,  here,  durin'  life,  I  may  swing,  twist  and  burn, 
For  it's  all  the  same  thing  to  that  Biddy  IMaguire. 


» I 


r 


280 


BIDDY  MAGUIRE. 


When   she's  framed   in   the   door-way,  that's   opposite 

ours, 
Throth,  you'd  think  some  ould  masther  had  painted  the 

air, 
And  had  ground  up  the   sky  and    the  stars  and   the 

flowers, 
Just  to  give  the  last  touch  to  a  picthcr  so  fair. 

But  bad  cess  to  the  paintin'  is  in  it  at  all, 
But  a  beautiful  craytshure,  as  meltin'  as  fire, 
That  would  butcher  your  sowl,  like  a  calf  in  a  stall  ; 
With  her  innocent  looks — That  same  Biddy  Maguire. 

Faith  I'll  give  up  moon-walkin'  and  take  to  my  tay. 
For  I  find  that  Fm  nothin'  but  skin  and  but  bone, 
While  my  neck's  got  so  stretch'd  lookin'  over  the  way, 
It's  the  lenth  of  a  gandher's,  and  not  like  my  own. 

Or  I'll  walk  right  up  to  her,  without  bcin'  shy. 
And  show  how  I'm  gone,  if  I  was  to  expire. 
And  I'll  say  to  her  teeth,  if  her  mother  was  by, 
"  Isn't  this  purty  work  for  you,  Biddy  Maguire  ? " 


*  Aju.  ^MW»mu^:.jm,mi-ah. 


ASINUS  AD  LYRAM ! 


opposite 

linted  the 

and    the 


281 


.  stall ; 
aguire. 

jr  tay, 

ne, 

the  way, 

OWli. 


ASINLr  AD  LYRA^n 

"  Critics  arc  already  made,  "—IUron. 

He  has  dropt  his  pick  and  shovel,  and  peeled  off  his 
grimy  dress, 

And  has  scrubbed  himself  with  soap-suds  in  a  tub  ; 
For  the  fellow  has  decided  to  go  right  into  the  press, ' 
And  pick  up  a  critic's  bowie-knife  or  club. 

He  knows  that  education  and  experience  are  all  stuff. 

And  that  genius,  taste  and  talent  never  pay. 
And  that  hosts  of  interlopers  who  but  swagger,  lie  and 
puff, 

Cut  a  figure  in  the  fourth  estate  to-day. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  way,  for  he  has  learned  to  read 
and  write. 

And  can  plagiarize  and  bully  like  the  rest  ; 
And,  besides,  he  knows  whatever  he  may  happen  to 
indite. 

Is  as  likely  to  be  paid  for  as  the  best 


I!  ' 


282 


ASINUS  AD  LYRAM! 


So  he  walks  into  free  lunches  and  some  other  fellow's 
beer, 
And  some  fancy  words  from  "Webster,"  when  he  can. 
And  hangs  round  a  police  court,  with  a  pen  behind  his 
ear  ; 
And,  lo  !  he  is  a  literary  man  ! 

And  when,  through  a  cracked  skylight,  or  beside  a  * '  tal- 
low-dip," 

He  has  studied  squibs  and  play-bills  night  and  day. 
And  has  got  some  slangy  platitudes  upon  his  vulgar  lip. 

He  is  ready  and  is  panting  for  the  fray. 


So  he  struts  into  the  play,  where  he  had  never  been  be- 
fore. 
And  the  opera,  that  so  blinds  him  with  its  glare, 
And  trampling  on  the  actors,   on  the  singers  and  the 
score, 
He  stands  forth  a  finished  critic,  then  and  there  I 


JNO  AND  BACCHUS. 


283 


fellow's 

n  he  can, 
;hin<l  his 


INO   AND   BACCHUS. 


iea  "tal- 

nd  day, 
ulgar  lip, 

been  be- 

\re, 
and  the 

ere  ! 


In  an  old  numlicr  of  the  'London  Art  Journal '  there  is  a  fine  en- 
graving from  a  beautiful  group  in  marble,  by  Foley,  in  which  Ino  and 
her  infant  charge  are  seen  reclining  upon  the  flowery  sward;  the  for- 
mer raised  on  her  elbow  and  turned  on  one  of  her  hips,  while  dang- 
ling a  bunch  of  grapes  over  the  pouting  lips  of  the  rosy  god,  who 
pushes  it  aside,  as  if  to  make  for  one  of  her  breasts,  which  is  ex- 
quisitely depicted. 

STANZAS. 

One  breast  was  bare,  and  its  nipple  lay 
Like  a  crimson  star  in  the  milky  way  ; 

Shedding  round  it  a  soft,  pale  roseate  light 
That  melted  away  into  dazzling  white 

Shot  with  veins,  of  a  delicate  azure  tinge, 
That  were  lost  near  her  shoulder's  shining  liingc. 


Through  the  pink  and  pearly  charm  of  her  mouth 
Iler  breath  came  forth  on  the  wings  of  the  South  ; 

While,  resting  on  one  of  her  dimpled  hips, 
She  dangled  the  grapes  o'er  the  youngster's  lips, 

Who  pushed  them  aside,  with  a  joyous  scream, 
Preferring  his  strawberries  smothered  in  cream. 


f 


i 


i 


284 


yy/A"  j^EVorKE. 


thp:  devotee. 

From  the  Irish  Anlho/o<:^y. 

If  those  teeth  were'  but  bacles,  Peggy  Rooney,  asthorc, 

I'd  go  smack  at  my  "  duty  "  by  night  and  by  chiy, 
And  the  flashin'  white  rosary  tell  o'er  and  o'er, 
In,  I'm  sure,  what  you'd  call  a  most  beautiful  way. 

Wid  your  dark  dhramy  eyes  as  the  lamps  of  my  slirine, 

Throwin'  light  on  my  upturned  face  unawares, 
And  your  daisy-tipped  lips  for  a  small  taste  of  v.'ine. 
If  I  got,  you  persave,  rather  wake  at  my  prayers. 

Then,  begorra,  I  think  I'd  be  able  to  do. 

And  repate  pather-nosthers  and  aves  galore  ; 

Eor,  the  dickens  a  bit,  but,  betune  me  and  you, 
If  I'd  ax  to  get  up  to  my  legs  any  more. 

And,  if  even  the  priesht  of  the  parish  they'd  bring 
Just  to  rate  me  and  bid  me  give  over  the  case, 

Ton  my  conscience,  I  tell  you  Id  do  no  such  thing  ; 
Is  it  give  him  a  chance  to  pop  down  in  my  place  ? 


BOSTON  TEA-PAKTY  NO.  2. 


285 


BOSTON  TEA-PARTY  NO.  2. 

How  consistent  the  promptings  of  Boston  must  be, 

When  she  once  more  invites  the  Atlantic  to  tea  ; 

For  although  it  is  many  and  many  a  day 

Since  she  had  her  first  tling  at  Souchong  in  this  way, 

The  news   has  just  reached  us,   through  tongue  and 

through  pen. 
That  her  Mohawks  have  had  a  tea-party  again. 

But  how  different  the  cup  she  once  brewed  on  her  coast 
From  the  one  now  decocted  to  wet  her  dry  toast. 
For  the  strength  and  bouquet  of  the  beverage   had  then 
Laid  right  hold  on  the  lips  and  the  noses  of  men  ; 
But  her  waves  smack  no  more  of  the  primitive  stuff, 
The  Atlantic  being  now  vvisiiy-washy  enough. 

And,  besides,  her  late  guests  had  been  scarce  half  regaled, 
When,  from  some  cause  or  other,  her  canister  failed, 
And,  good  lack  !  she  was  forced  her  Bohea  to  eke  out 
With  some  few  laurel  leaves  that  lay  scattered  about. 
Upon  which  her  grave   teapot   so   fumed,  tossed   and 

pitched. 
That  her  Puritan  instincts  declared  it  bewitched. 


U 


286 


BOSTON  TEA-PARTY  NO.  2. 


But  to  some  subtler  fancies  the  mystical  din, 

Filled  with  snatches  of  echoes,  cried  forth  from  within  : 

"  Come  ! — Flash  out  a  stream — Hip  !  Hurrah  ! — muffled 

drums — 
That   child    is    not   mine  ! — What  ? — The   Frost    Spirit 

comes  ! — 
Put  him  out  I — Hail  Columbia  ! — What  ? — Not  even  beer? 
Tea  and  toast !     Lot  us  go,  boys !     We're  long  enough 

here  !  " 

Only  two  inspirations  of  earth  are  divine — 

The  one  flows  from  woman,  the  other  from  wine  ; 

And  he  is  of  dwarfed  intellectual  growth 

Who  refuses  to  pay  proper  homage  to  both, 

Or  who,  in  his  pettiness  ventures  to  boast 

That  the  one's  found  in  tea  and  the  other  in  toast 


V: 


'*-.  -■wurt<0r-i<*»,,  ,„4j^ 


I  within  ; 
-muffled 


nUMOk  AND  VERSlFJCATlOiV, 


287 


St    Spirit 

en  beer  ? 
■  enouj^h 


;t. 


AN   EASY  LESSON  IN  HUMOR   AND   VERSIFI- 

CATION. 

A  Fat,  old,   cantin<;  Enj^lish  beau  once  got  a  berth  at 
sea. 

To   teach  us  poor,  blind  Yankee  salts,    and  pocket  a 
snug  Fek ; 

Among  the  sad  white-choker    chaps   they  called   him 
"Brother  J KK." 

Which  shows  the  Fke  Jkk  Islands  should  have  been  his 
destiny. 


And  when  our  d,irk  left  the  last  b/o-h/  behind  in  a  fresh 
gale, 

And  s/ood  out  under  6///rA//// '-sails,    he  soon  began  to 

RAIL, 

And   looked   as  green,    as    though  he  felt  without  the 

church's  Pale, 
While  all  the  Rail,  Pale  stingo  tiiat  he  swigged  was 

no  avail. 


288 


HUMOR  AND   VERSJFICA  TION. 


\ 


Then  \vc  hct  he'd  be  no  belter  till  he  ceased  to  yawn  and 
stretch, 

And  knew  thoug-h  he  was  very  short,  a  long   way  he 

might  KKTCH  ; 

In  fact,  he  could  have  scarce  looked  worse  if  he  were 

a  dog's  FETCH, 

Nor  could  a  vvrktcii  fktch  a  more  dismal  phiz  before 
Jack  Ketch. 

But  when  the  wind  reined  in  its  strength,  he  rose  from 
off  his  seat. 

And  frizzed  his  locks  ;  though y<//  we  saw  him  lean  to- 
ward being  neat. 

He  called  the  skipper's  neice  *'Thc  cheese,"  when  he 
got  through  the  feat, 

As  with  some  neat  feet  broth  she  came  so  smilingly 
and  sweet. 

And  now  whene'er  our  snoring  craft  slept  in  her  wake 

once  more. 
He'd  join  a  boat,  crow  o'er  the  crew  ,  and  volunteer  a 

row'r  ; 
But  if  a  "cat's  paw  "  touched  his  faith,  he'd  tremble  at 

the  oar, 
And  make  us  roar  o'er  half  the  fine,  fresh-water  creeds 

ashore. 


'.•r«IIMMliln-«Mni4«„«  . 


HUMOR  AND  VERSIFICATION. 


289 


But  soon  a  storm  came  swooping:  clown  the  hollows  of 

the  night, 
Through   frowning   watery   citadels,    rocked    on    their 

gloomy  siTK  ; 
While  thunders  from  their  battlements  cried  out,  "Man's 

but  a  MITE  !  " 
Till  such  a  sight  might  well   appal  the  stoutest  with 

afright. 

Then  looked  aghast  our  heavenly  guide,  though  not  a 

prayer  he  told ; 
^^"t.  egged  by  fear  he  raised  a  hatch    and  leaj^od  into 

the  HOLD. 

When  one  brave  tar  sung  in  full  pitch,  as  through    the 
surge  we  bowled  : 

"Lay  HOLD,  BOLD  lads  !  "     "  Amen's  the  word,  but  let's 

keep  out  the  cold." 

When  morning  came,  to  heal  our  grief,  the  Asp  took  us 

in  tow, 
But  fearing  Jee  was  lost  in  ivo,    we  all  went  down  to 

KNOW  ; 

We  found  him  with  his  kft  leg  right,  but  right  leg  left 

a  bow; 
So  that  no  beau  or  sailor  has  he  played  since  that  great 

blow. 


39^ 


EARLY  JOYS. 


EARLY  JOYS. 

The  man  who  weeps  o'er  early  joys, 

Must  be  a  simple  hearted  fool ; 
And  can't  have  jjfone,  like  other  boys, 

For  twelve  or  thirteen  years,  to  school  ; 

Or  felt  the  daily  misery 

Of  peeping  through  the  bolted  gate, 
While  some  Bob  Smith,  with  savage  glee, 

Roars  from  within,  "  Tom  Jones,  you're  late  !  " 

What  bliss  ! — to  (piake  our  youth  away 

At  crazy  desks,  from  nine  till  four, 
Or  to  be  caught  ten  times  a  day, 

At  "Jack  and  Jill,"  behind  the  door. 


Or  severed  almost  piece  from  piece 
For  pinching  an  ill-natured  mate 

Who  bawled  out  "  playing  fox  and  geese." 
Or,  "  making  ladies  on  a  slate." 


>":.i,\.M,.. 


£AMLY  JOYS. 

How  sad  to  see  such  senseless  toys 
Clasped  by  a  gray-haired  youth,  in  tears, 

Unknown  to  the  sublimer  joys 

That  should  attend  our  graver  years. 

How  sad  to  know  his  leaden  feet, 
The  paths  of  Truth  have  never  trod. 

Nor  borne  him  through  their  blest  retreat, 
One  single  step  towards  his  God. 


291 


f1' 


2^2 


KATE    KOONEY, 


KATE  ROONEY. 

Thkrk's  not  an  angel  wings  the  skies 
Possesses  such  a  pair  of  eyes 

As  yours,  Kate  Rooney  ; 
And  as  I'm  looking  at  them  now, 
Starrin'  the  hivens  of  your  brow, 

I  feel  quite  spooney, 


And  thravelin'  downwards  to  your  lips. 
It  makes  my  own  as  dhry  as  chips, 

Just  wid  warm  thinkin', 
That  I  would  like  to  taste  their  dew, 
Wid  no  one  by  but  me  and  you, 

To  watch  the  dhrinkin'. 


JIUXTED  down; 


>93 


HUNTED  DOWN. 

But  I  am  the  iniluii)|)y  man 

From  night  till  morn— from  morn  till  nij^^ht ; 
For,  do  the  very  best  I  can, 

That  cursed  best  is  never  right. 


Whether  I  eat  or  drink  or  dance, 
Or  speak  or  bow  to  those  who  pass, 

Or  sing  or  drive,  by  some  mischance, 
I  always  make  myself  an  ass. 

The  other  day  when  at  a  fete — 

A  splendid  fete  not  far  from  town 

With  beating  heart,  I  chanced  to  meet 
One  Mary  Anna  Julia  Brown. 


*' 


':\ 


I  saw  her  eyes  swore  love  to  mine — 
Such  love  as  words  can  ne'er  express  ; 

But  handing  her  a  little  wine 
I  spilled  it  o'er  her  satin  dress  ! 


I 


294  HUNTED  JWWN. 

She  smiled,  and  asked  me  for  some  snipe — • 
I  ilidn't  like  that  smile  ! — not  I  I — 

I  tried  to  carve,  but  such  a  wipe 
As  then  I  gave  her  in  the  eye  1 

For  oh  ! — the  like  has  ne'er  been  heard— 
My  fork — and  I  in  such  a  state — 

It  slipped  ! — and  the  accursed  bird 
Flew  at  her  off  the  cursed  plate. 

Oh  !  then  I  shuddered  in  despair — 
She  met  me  with  so  dark  a  frown — 

And  sinking  down  into  my  chair, 
Lost  Mary  Anna  Julia  Brown  ! 

I  tried  to  dance  some,  after  that, 
But  dancing  now  was  l)ut  a  bore  ; 

Yet  still  I  managed  to  lay  flat 
My  furious  host  upon  the  floor  I 

But,  after  all,  I  sang  with  grace  ; 

And  soon,  commencing,  with  a  sigh, 
I  towards  the  ceiling  turned  my  face, 

But  plaster  fell  into  my  eye  I 


HUNTEJ)  DOIVX. 

Enough  !     I  rushed  from  such  a  fate  ; 

And  drove  off  with  a  deadly  groan  ; 
But  oh  !  my  gig,  when  at  my  gate, 

Upset,  and  broke  my  collar-bone  ! 

And  here,  as  now  I  lie  in  bed, 
A  iJachclor,  though  wed  to  woe, 

I  hear,  though  I  can't  lift  my  head, 
My  servants  drawing  corks  below  I 


295 


Then  am  I  not  a  haunted  man 

From  night  till  morn,  from  morn  till  night? 
For  do  the  very  best  I  can, 

That  cursed  best  is  never  right  I 


296 


MICK  GRADY. 


MICK  GRADY. 

If  I  could,  throth  I'd  hop  into  one  iv  thim  cars, 
And  be  off,  like  a  shot,  up  yon  glittherin'  height, 

Just  to  bring  you  down  lashins  and  lavins  ov  stars 
To  encircle  that  neck  and  that  forehead  this  night. 


Don't  you  see  where  a  river  ov  light  seems  to  sthray, 
Where  the  beautiful  azure  appears  to  be  riven  ? 

Och  !   I'd  dash  into  that,  and  take  bagfuls  away, 

For  they  say  that's  a  mine  ov  those  jewels  ov  Heaven. 


Arrah,  may  be  you  think  I'd  prove  false  on  the  road, 
If  T  stcp'd  into  Vesta  or  Juno  or  Ceres  ; 

And  that  I'd  be  apt  to  soon  scatther  my  load 

Amongst  their  cowld  phantoms  ov  Judies  and  Marys, 


•.BwnwBST. .  i»«ii'aiv»». 


MICK  GRADY. 


2i)7 


Is  il  me  ?     Bluran  ounthers  !  its  you  that  well  know 
That  I've  no  earthly  raison  to  live  in  the  skies, 

Whin  I've  got  purer  blue  and  more  light  here  below 
In  my  own  darlin'  Molly  Mallowney's  two  eyes; 

And,  dhin,  do  you  b'lieve  I'm  a  ghost  ov  a  man 
That  would  spind  all  his  life  wid  a  vaporish  lady  ? 

Throth  I'll  have  somethin'  solider,  dear,  if  I  can  ; 
Cock  thim  up,  to  be  sure,  wid  the  likes  ov  JMick  Grady  ! 


I 


■Hi 


298 


HINT  FOK  JANUARY, 


HINT  FOR  JANUARY. 

If  you  want  to  get  warrem,  go  out  in  the  cowld, 
Wid  a  pair  of  young  horses  that's  used  to  the  snow, 

And   some   one    by  your  side   you'll  be  forced  for  to 
howld, 
On  pretinse  that  the  back  of  the  cutthcr's  too  low — 

Some  one  upon  whom  the  frost  saizes  in  haste, 

And  whose  lips  are  so  sure  to  resaive  its  first  touch, 

Though  wid  keeping  them  thawed,  while  supportin'  her 
waist, 
Ton  me  sowkins  the  weather  won't  throuble  her  much. 

And  while  sheltherin'  her  thus  over  valley  and  hill 
If  she    says  she's  so  warrem  she    can't  dhraw  her 
breath, 
"Oh  !  My  God  "  sez  you — hugging  her  closer  up  still — 
"  People  always  thinks  that  whin  they're  freezin'  to 
death ! " 


■MHii 


RETALIATION. 


299 


i!^ 


RETALIATION. 

When  the  sides    of  old   Time   seemed    ni<;h  ready  to 
crack, 
As  he  pelted  us,  laughing,  through  boyhood  together. 
With  pebble-like  moments  that  dropt  in  the  sack 

That    then    swung   at   our   shoulders   as    light    as   a 
feather  ; 

Ah  !  how  little  we  thought,  when  just  loosed,  on  the 
road, 

From  the  frail  apron-strings  of  a  kind-hearted  niother, 
That  the  villain  was  tricking  us  into  a  load 

That  should  press  on  us  heavily  one  day  or  other. 


But,  now,  since  at  last  we  are  up  to  the  hoax, 

Let     us    try    to    repay    the  old  rogue  on  the  treble, 

And  pelt  him  with  pipes,  em])ty  bottles,  anil  jokes, 
When  we  tind  that  he's  stooping  to  pick  up  a  pebble. 


300 


MATRIMONY. 


MATRIMONY. 


I 


Thk  clothes-line  over  which  the  poor  Kilkenny  cats  are 

thrown ; 
The  cage  that  keeps  strange  monkeys  to  the  scratch  ; 
The  rope  that  to  the  drowning  dog  securely  hangs  the 

stone  ; 
The  torch  that's  always  burning  near  the  thatch  ; 


I 


\h 


The  thorn  that's  stuck  secure  in  almost  every  booby's 

side  ; 
The  wedge  that  severs  those  who  once  were  friends  ; 
The  whipping-post  to  which  a  woman's  earthly  joys 

are  tied  ; 
The  daily  "  round  and  round  "  that  never  ends. 


,M,iH«-{<;  < ••  ,\^ir^» -.fjimme.  ?«< « 


A/A  TRIMONY.  -».  . 

The  Christian  chemistry  that  blends  the  water  with  tho 

oil ; 
The  spoon  that's  ever  emptying  out  the  seas  ; 
The  Joshua  that  lengthens  out  the  sun  of  bitter  toil ; 
The  web  that  joins  two  rabid  Siamese. 

The  empty  space  that  bulges  in  the  middle  of  the  bed  ; 

The  fly  that's  always  lighting  on  your  nose  ; 

Things    more    unlike  to    matrimony  never    could  be 

said — 
As  everybody's  certain, — I  suppose! 


sgMm 


"TW»»WW^BP^^ 


il 


302 


r//£  RAINBOW. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

Oh  I  how  I  chafe  whene'er  I  hear  those  ballad-mongers 

sing 
Of  the  wedding  link  that  binds  the  golden  sunshine  to 

the  showers  ; 
Which  of  them  has  ever  christened  it  the  skipping-rope 

of  Spring, 
Or  the  handle  of  the  landscape's  balmy  basket  full  of 

flowers  ? 


I 


Which  of  them  has  ever  fancied  it  a  swing  on  yonder 

plain, 
Just    inverted,   by  some  frolicsome  celestials   in  their 

mirth, 
With  a  swoop  that  had  upset  the  blessed  angel  of  the 

rain, 
Till  his  stock  of  liquid  jewelry  came  tumbling  to  the 

earth  ? — 


THE  RAINBOW. 


303 


Or  believed  it  but  the   engine-hose  stretched  o'er  the 

sultry  sky  ; 

Or  the  bell-rope  pulled  by  nature  when  she  wants  to 
wash  her  face ; 

Or  the  clothes-line  upon  which    the    dripping  clouds 
are  hung  to  dry  ; 

Or  a  thousand  other  names    that  I   can't  mention 
this  place? 


m 


Oh  how   I  hate   to    hear  those  sorry  ballad-mongers 
sing, 

Of  the  gold  and   purple   comb,  with   all   its   showery 
silver  teeth, 

That  among  the  emerald  tresses  of  the  beautiful  young 
Spring, 

Pins  the  violet  and  the  primrose  and  the  daisy 


m  one 


wreath. 


mmm 


304 


ONE  OF  THE  REASONS  WHY. 


ONE  OF  THE  REASONS  WHY. 

WiD  her  piggen  on  her  head, 
Comin'  up  the  scinted  lane, 
Blur  and  turf ! — sure  sich  a  thread 
Niver  had  the  Queen  of  Spain. 

Brathin'  like  a  hawthorn  bush 
Whin  in  the  May-tide  morn  it  blows ; 
Warblin'  like  a  summer  thrush 
Whin  the  day  's  about  to  close. 


■ 


Light  within  her  faithful  heart ; 
Light  within  her  purple  eyes ; 
Not  the  soulless  light  of  art, 
But  the  light  that  niver  dies. 


ONE  OF  TI/E  REASONS  IVJIY, 

Light  upon  her  rounded  arms 

On  her  face  and  dazzlin'  throat  ; 
Light  surroundin'  all  her  charms  ; 
Till  they  in  a  halo  float  j 

And  she's  thrue  as  she  is  fair 

Thrue  as  ever  prayed  to  God  1 
For  she'd  die  a  marthyr  there 
Ere  she'd  bethray  her  native  sod 


305 


And  there's  not  amongst  us  one 
Who  feels  not,  'tis  for  such  as  she 
That  now  he  girds  his  afmpr  on, 
And  swears  that  Ireland  shall  be  free  ! 


3o6 


KITTY  LYNCH, 


KITTY  LYNCH. 


Oh  !  then,  cushla  machrec,  I'm  just  sthruckof  ahape, 
At  the  thoughts  of  the  goold  you  might  put  in  one's  purse; 
For  it's  only  yourself  that  can  dhress  half  so  chape 
Without  lookin',  mavourneen,  a  thrawnien  the  worse. 


Though  Tm  often  beside  you — vvhatever's  the  cause — 
Till  this  minute  I  never  persaved  you  were  dhrest 
In  that  coorse  woollen  gown,  and  that  bit  of  plain  gawze 
That  was  white  'till  you  gave  it  the  lie  on  your  breast. 

They  may  talk  of  their  coortiers  that  make  people  stare 
Wid  their  fine  silks  and  sattins  so  squeezinly  laced, 
But  you'd  see  how  they'd  look,  in  the  home-spun,  you 

wear, 
Wid  no  more  than  that  runnin'-sthring  circlin'  their  waist 


a  hape, 
le's  purse; 
hape 

worse. 


cause — 
rest 

iin  gavvze 
ir  breast. 


They 


KfTTY  L  YXCir. 
may  boast  of  their  dainties,  th 


eirdhrinks, 


307 
aiui  that 


same, 


And  dhrive  out  for  a  walk  in  their  coaches  and  f,.ur  ; 
But  what  can  bate  sthrawberries  smothered  in  craniJ 
And  a  sthroll  down  the  boreen  wid no  one,  astlu.re  ? 

Aye,  a  sthroll  that  would  fill  your  younj,^  heart  wid  de- 
li)-ht, 

Till  in  dhrames-that  a  saint  might  be  sharin'  wid  you- 
You'd  be  brathin'  the  white-thawren   hedge  the  whole 
night, 

And  be  dhrippin'  all  over  wid  starlight  and  dcv^. 

And  whin  from  your  mouth  some  more  feverish  joy 
Sipped  the  pure  liquid  balm,  as  the  eager  bee  sips, 
Ten  to  one  but  you'd  call,  unawares,  for  some  boy 
Just  to  dhrop  in,  a  moment,  and  moisten  your  lips. 


)ple  stare 
iced, 
pun,  you 


lir  waist 


3o8 


PADDY  BLAKE'S  '' PINNANCE.'' 


PADDY  BLAKE'S  "PINNANCE." 

Ah  !  then  take  down  that  image  that  hangs  near  the 
althar, 

Or  else  all  my  pinnance  is  useless  to  me  ; 
For  whin  I'm  forninst  it  I'm  sure  for  to  falther  : 

And  its  sinnin'  I  am,  Father  Luke,  do  you  soe  ! 

Put  me  up  some  ould  saint  that  is  wrinkled  and  hairy, 
And  it's  then  I'll  get  through  wid  my  rounds  like  a 
man  ; 

But  if  you  let  anythin'  near  me  called,  Mary, 

Ton  my  cor  shins  I'm  done  for  and  cannot  get  an. 


Is  it  "why  "  that  you're  roarin'  ? — now  listen  to  raison, 
I've  a  namesake  of  hers,  only  barrin'tho  child. 

But  that  will  come  right,  plaze  the  Lord,  in  due  saison  ! 
Arrah  !  now  Father  Luke,  don't  be  gettin'  so  wild  ! 


PADDY  BLAKE'S  '' PINA'ANCE:' 


near  the 


ee  ! 


d  hairy, 
ids  like  a 


j'et  an. 


309 


Oh  !  you'll  "add  one  more  saint,  shrine  and  lamp  to  the 
canon  !  " 

So  you  say,  "till  I  wear  out  my  knees  to  the  bone  ! " 
Don't  be  hard  !     Add  the  moon  and  the  banks  of  the 
Shannon  ! 
And  be-orra  !  Til  furnish  a  saint  of  my  own  I 


0  raison, 

1  saison  ! 
wild  1 


310 


IMPROMPTU, 


IMPROMPTU. 

(On  seeing  the  Balloon  "  Europa  ",  made  of  Irish  linen,  just  ascend 
at  Toronto,  Canada,  to  a  great  height,  on  its  way  to  Boston.) 

Why  !    In  commerce,  ould  Ireland,  I'm  glad  you're  be- 

ginnin' 
Just  to  hould  up  your  head,  and  to  "  never  say  die," 
For,  begorra,  I'm  sure  that  your  beautiful  linen 
Never  went  off  before,  half  so  quick  or  so  high. 


Oh  !  thin,    won't  they  be  glad,  from  Coleraine  up  to 

Kerry, 
At  its  rapid  and  most  unaccountable  sale  ? 
And,  machree,  it's  no  wonder  they  all  should  be  merry, 
For  to  see  that  so  much  can  be  done  by  the  Gael. 


'■x^immsmmmm^ 


MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


3" 


,  just  ascend 
on.) 

>^ou're  be- 

y^clie," 

n 

1. 

ne  up  to 


•e  merry, 
lel. 


MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 

A    SKETCH,     IN    PATENT    IAMBICS 

As  fierce  a  blast  as  e're  old  Boreas  blew 

Was  piling  up  the  snow-drifts  tier  on  tier, 

When  from  dull  Dolly  Varden's  eyes  of  blue, 

As  through  the  waste  she  trudged,  fell  tear  on  tear. 

Upon  her  cheeks  and  ears,  and  small  snub  nose 
The  frost  had  seized  relentlessly — poor  maid  ! 

And  now,  but  all  too  late,  alas  !  she  knows 

How  stupid  the  mistake  that  she  had  made, 

Her  hands,  the  color  of  a  half-boiled  beet, 

Beneath  her  shawl  she  tries  in  vain  to  hide 

From  gusts  that  now  so  wildly  on  her  beat, 

Though  all  was  calm  when  first  from  home  she  hied, 


I 


312 


MISPLACED  CONFIDENCE. 


And  notwithstanding  she  was  stout  and  hale, 

The  cold  had  often  caused  her  so  much  pain, 

She  always  shuddered  when  the  snow  or  hail 
Began  to  patter  on  her  window-pane. 


But,  though  at  dawn  so  low  the  gray  clouds  rode 
As  to  presage  the  day  would  turn  out  so, 

And  that  the  storm  would  catch  her  on  the  road. 
Should  she  start  off  for  her  Aunt  Jane's,  to  sew, 


She  heeded  not  the  dull  sky's  threatening  red, 
That  pointed  plainly  to  this  bitter  fare. 

Because,  she  in  a  morning  paper  read  : 

"  The  weather  will  to-day  be  warm  and  fair." 


' 


'^ 


iiiiili 


KITTY  FITZGIBBON, 


J»3 


KITTY  FITZGIBBON. 

Charmin'  Kitty  P^itzgibbon  sat  inside  the  cloore, 
And,  begorra,  I  b'lieve  she  was  knittin, 

Till  a  moonbame  she  spied  play  in'  thricks  on  the  flure, 
Quite  convaynient  to  where  she  was  sittin'. 

There  it  danced  at  her  feet,  in  clear,  silvery  waves, 
Where  some  frolicsome  shadows  were  sinjin  ; 

For   it   sthramed  through  the  windee,   mixed  up  wid 
some  laves 
That  the  red  goold  of  autumn  was  tingin'. 


And  now,  as  it  fell  from  the  pure,  starry  skies. 
And  consaled  in  the  shade  its  soft  flashes, 

It  appeared  like  the  light  of  her  own  liquid  eyes 
Crouched  within  the  dark  lair  of  their  lashes. 


■Wtiteti  J .  't  l'lg«  llWft  1  .i^J^H 


<ii"'  P 


3'4 


KITTY  FITZGIBBO.V. 


And  she  thought,  as  she  gazed  on  the  quiverin'  bame, 
IT 'it  herself  was  the  one  could  dissimble, 

For  !;  ac  felt  that  if  young  Paddy  Casey  then  came, 
That  she  wouldn't  be  in  such  a  thrimble. 


w-. 


Ar.'l  Ivsldcs  that,  she  said,  while  she  looked  very  coy, 
'Iho--  >l    '!':"•  cheeks  glowed  as  red  red  ribbon, 

"Sure  it's  i.o  hi'i'  tv^  me,  for  I  scarce  know  the  boy," 
So  i.'ic  did — I.     •  s'.me  Kitty  Fitzgibbon. 

But  one  half  of  her  face  was  brought  out  by  the  light ; 

And  'twas  well  that  the  moon  had  discretion, 
For  to  give  one  the  whole,  would  be  murthcr  outright, 

And  be  awkward  when  caught  at  "ct)nfession. '' 

Although  fit  for  an  althar-piece,  just  as  she  was, 
'Twould  be  ticklish,  I'm  sure,  to  adore  her  ; 

For  when  goin'  your  "rounds  "  you'd  be  likely  to  pause 
Somethin'  longer  than  dacent  before  her. 

But  now  a  light  footstep  draws  rapidly  near, 
And  she  hears  but  her  heart  and  it  only  ; 

Till  a  full,  mellow  voice,  whispers  low  in  her  ear, 
"  Kitty  darlin',  I  thought  you'd  be  lonely." 


|;  I 


t^iliKf" 


r  bame, 


imc. 


KITTY  FITZGIBBON. 


315 


Then,  wilder  she  thrimbled  tlian  thrimbled  the  light  ; 

As  she  said  that  she  thought  'twas  her  mother  ; 
And  murmured,  half  out,  that  'twas  now  afther  n'ight, 

And  they  didn't  know  much  of  aich  other. 


very  coy, 

11, 
•boy," 


2  light  ; 

outright, 
)n.' 

to  pause 


But  sthrange  !  after  sittin'  an  hour  by  her  side, 
While  his  tongue  flowed  in  sthrains  rich  and  racy, 

When  he  got  up  to  go,  she  unconsciously  cried, 
•♦Ah  I  then,  sure  it's  not  late,  Mr.  Casey." 


!ar, 


3i6 


SEQUENTIAL. 


SEQUENTIAL.* 


On  reading  a  portion  of  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes'  letter  to  a 
lady,  in  which  he  refers  incidentally  to  his  "failing  eyes  and  aching 
wrist." 


Well,  what  of  it  ?  What  would  you  we  should  under- 
stand ? 

It's  in  logical  sequence,  most  men  will  insist 

That  when  all  the  wide  world  has  been  shaking  your 
hand, 

You  may  fairly  expect  an  odd  twinge  of  the  wrist. 


And  besides,  there  are  those  who  most  plainly  avow 
That  to  them  'tis  a  matter  of  utter  surprise 
That  the  dazzling  effulgence  that  circles  your  brow 
Had  not  long  since  most  seriously  damaged  your  eyes. 

*  See  appendix  {<>)  for  Dr.  Holmes'  letter. 


Plp» 


^m 


LVOW 


OW 

ir  eyes. 


SEQUENTIAL. 


Z^7 


And,  what's  more,  I  am  sure  they  would  say  to  your 
face — 

And  it  would  not  be  easy  to  prove  they  were  wrong- 
That  they  wonder,  considering  the  facts  of  the  case. 
How  your  eyes  and  your  wrist  came  to  hold  out  so 
long. 


etter  to  a 
lid  aching 


1  under- 

ig  your 

ist. 


But  what  though  your  eyes  were  now  closing  in  night; 
And  those  musical  fingers  had  ceased  to  inspire? 
It  would  be  but  to  ope  to  more  exquisite  light- 
It  would  be  but  to  sweep  a  more  eloquent  lyre. 

Yet,  on  this  latter  point  I  can't  say  I'm  quite  clear, 
For  should  Atropos  once  catch  your  magical  song, 
She  might  order,  whatever  was  left  behind  here 
That  you  take  your  old  harp  and  old  fingers  along. 


3i8 


TO  BEL  VA  l- 


TO  BELVA  L- 


Now  Belva,  don't  be  stuck  up  in  that  way, 

We  know  you  all  were  only  prigged  from  Adam, 

When  he  in  that  mystc-ious  slumber  lay, 

And,  hence,  that  only  second-hand  your  clay, 

A  fact  you  dare  not  venture  to  gainsay. 

For  you  have  downright  Scripture  for  it,  madam. 

He  got  his  first  dig  in  the  ribs  we  know 
On  your  account,  for  so  the  thing  is  written  : 
And  though  it  may  be  very  long  ago, 
We  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  blow, 
And  scarcely  like  to  take  you  into  Co. 
Lest  we  again  should  be  severely  smitten. 

But,  Belva,  on  what  ever  tack  you  run 
I'll  stand  beside  you,  and  shall  never  weary  ; 
And  guide  you  as  Apollo  guides  the  sun, 
From  early  dawn  until  the  day  is  done. — 
Nor  rest  until  the  petticoats  have  won — 
Let  me  be  your  Apollo,  Belva  dearie. 


AHi'iRA  TION. 


319 


AN  ASPIRATION. 

If  in  Art  we're  constrained  to  get  rid  of  the  nude, 
And  to  dress  our  mythology  up  hke  a  guy, 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  get  rid  of  the  dude. 
That's  a  thing  more  offensive  by  far  to  the  eye. 

'  I'hough  I  think  it's  too  late  in  the  day,  1  confess, 
To  make  all  our  Venuses  over  anew — 
What  sculptor  would  work,  like  a  tailor,  on  dress, 
Nor  ever  again  on  a  classical  view? 

Let  the  prude  wear  smoked  glasses,  nor  ply  any  more 
Her  keen,  morbid  microscope,  as  she  has  done. 
She  need  not  disturb  her  chill  heart  to  the  core 
By  a  glimpse  of  some  faint,  little  spot  on  the  sun. 

But  if  we  must  white-wash  our  Art,  h'ke  a  wall. 
And  get  into  a  strict  shawl  and  petticoat  mood, 
Whatever  our  marbles  or  paintings  befall, 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  get  rid  of  the  dude. 


320 


NOT  AX  ONIGIXAl.. 


NOT  AN  ORIGINAL. 

Yes  :  woman's  a  copy,  I  vow, 

No  original,  surely,  is  she; 
Thoug-h  lovely  and  all  as  she's  now, 

'Ihat  she's  borrowed,  the  simplest  may  sec. 

For  instance,  her  lips  and  her  eyes 
Where  pilfered  from,  do  you  suppose  ? 

The  one  from  the    blue    steirry  skies. 
The  other,  'tis  plain,  from  the  rose. 

And  what  of  her  breath's  spicy  gale } 
Is  it  not  of  the  sweet  morning  breeze, 

Coming  up  from  the  flowers  of  the  vale 
That  bloom  at  the  feet  of  the  trees  ? 


And  what  of  her  teeth  and  her  hair  ? 

'Tis  apparent  to  you  and  to  me, 
One's  the  blackest  of  night  in  its  lair. 

The  other  the  pearls  of  the  sea. 


NOT  AlV  ORIGINAL. 


And  her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  streams 


That  out  through  the  tlovvery  wilds  rove  ; 
And  her  limbs  are  the  rounded  moonbeams, 
That  fall  though  the  chinks  of  the  grove. 


321 


Yes  :  woman's  a  copy,  I  vow, 

No  original,  surely,  is  she  ; 
Though  lovely  and  all  as  she's  now, 

That  she's  borrowed,  the  simplest  may  see. 


3C. 


^s^^^mmjum 


mmmmmn 


APPENDIX. 

(") 

Camhridge,  May  27,  1879. 
My  Dear  .Sir  : 

I  HAVE  seldom  if  ever  received  a  more  graceful  compliment  than  the 
lines  you  sent  me  of  March  3, 

Only  illness  has  prevented  me  from  sooner  writing  to  thank  you. 
1  beg  you  to  pardon  the  delay  and  the  seeming  negligence  on  my  part 
in  acknowledging  those  friendly  words. 

Quite  apart  from  any  reference  to  myself,  I  think  your  poem 
beautiful. 

I  thank  you,  and  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


Boston,  A/ay  24,  1866. 
My  Dear  Sir  : 

I  HAVE  read  your  letter  and  the  accompanying  verses  with  interest 
and  pleasure.  I  find  them  fluent,  graceful,  fanciful  ;  showing  as  I 
should  think  a  good  deal  of  practice  too  as  a  poetical  artist, 

I  shall  hand  them,  letter  and  verses,  to  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  of  the 
firm  Ticknor  &  Fields,  recommending  them  to  his  careful  considera- 
tion    »     *     * 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 

O.  W.  Holmes, 

323 


324 


APPENDIX. 


(0 

Beverly  Farms,  Sept.  2,  1885. 
Many  thanks,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  kind  remembrance,  and  espe- 
cially for  your  very  pleasing  sonnet,  which  I  have  read  with  much 
gratification. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


Boston,  Nov.  29,  1863. 
Dear  Sir  : 

I  HAVE  read  your  letter  and  the  accompanying  poem  with  care  and 
interest  *  *  ♦  *  I  find  this  poem  of  yours,  delicate,  melodious,  grace- 
ful, well  wrought,  perhaps  a  Httle  over  fanciful  in  following  out  the 
image  of  the  flaming  Treasurer,  I  shall  send  it  with  your  letter  to 
Mr.  James  T.  P'iclds  of  the  firm  Ticknor  &  Fields,  publishers  of  this 
city.     *     *    « 

I  am,  very  truly  yours, 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


Boston,  April  2.%  1888. 
My  Dear  Sir  : 

I  am  very  thankful  that  I  have  sight  and  strength  of  wrist  enough 
to  write  with  my  own  hand,  and  thank  you  for  your  lively,  grace- 
ful and  inspiriting  verses.  J  am  grateful  for  such  a  pleasant  compli- 
ment. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

Very  truly  yours, 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 


APPENDIX, 


325 


(/) 

Boston,  Dec.  30,  1870. 
I  THANK  you  heartily  for  your  spirited  lines  recalling  the  old 
Christmas.  As  I  look  out  here  from  my  new  home  on  the  wintry 
landscape,  the  picture  of  the  old  hall  and  the  yule  log  and  the  was-sail 
bowl,  brings  back  all  my  romantic  associations  with  the  old  festival 
which  again  give  way  to  the  better  realities  of 

"  The  land  of  the  river,  the  cedar  and  pine," 
and  call  up  visions  of  happy  Hiccs,  and  cheerful  homes  throughout  all 
its  length  and  breadth;  for  I  hope  there  is  hardly  any  part  of  it  where 
the  Christian  anniversary  did  not  find  something  of  comfort  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

And  so  with  renewed  thanks  I  wish  you  at  least  the  remembrance 
of  a  happy  Christmas  and  the  pleasure  of  a  great  many  such  in  the 
future. 

Very  truly  yours, 

O.  W.  Holmes 


